SONGS  OF  THE  SEASONS 


AND     OTHEK    POEMS. 


JAMES     LINEN. 


REDFIELD, 

110      AND     112     NASSAU      STREET. 
NEW-YORK. 


JOHN    A     GRAY, 

$rfnt«r, 

97  Cliff,  cor.  Frankfort  Street. 


ttrgatnt, 

THE    POET    Vv'HO    WAS    THK    DELIGHT    OF    MY    YOUTH. 

AND 

THE    MAN    WHO    HAS    BEEN    THE    FRIEND    OF    MY    RIPER    TEAR 

THIS    LITTLE    VOLUME 

IS     KESPECTFCLI.Y  INSCRIBED  DY   HIS  ADOPTED  COCKTIIYMAX, 

JJMES  /, 


134838 


PREFACE. 


BEING  an  occasional  contributor  to  some  of  the  most  respectable 
magazines  of  the  day,  I  hope  that  the  appearance  of  a  selection 
from  my  poetical  effusions  will  not  be  deemed  an  impertinent 
intrusion  upon  public  attention.     The  smaller  poems  have  been 
so  extensively  copied  into  the  newspapers  throughout  the  United 
States,  some  having  even  found  their  way  into  British  periodicals, 
that  from  their  apparent  popularity,  I  have  been  flattered  into  the 
belief  that  they  possess  some  degree  of  merit.     My  subscribing 
friends  having  relieved  me  from  all  anxious  solicitude  of  a  pecu 
niary  character,  they  will  be  pleased  thus  publicly  to  accept  my 
grateful    acknowledgments    for   their    kindness,   partiality,    and 
regard.     With  the  critic  I  have  nothing  to  do.     I  neither  invite 
his  criticism  nor  defy  it.     The  poems  are  simple  and  unpretending. 
My  Muse,  however,  is  somewhat  capricious.      She  is  sometimes 
grave  and  sometimes  gay,  and  occasionally  inclined  to  be  satirical. 


PREFACE. 


The  present  volume  exhibits  specimens  of  my  moody  but  delight 
ful  companion.  She  is  ever  to  me  a  source  of  ineffable  pleasure. 
She  is  too  independent  to  court  the  favors  of  the  great,  and  shrinks 
from  seeking  the  applause  of  the  vulgar.  Her  joys  are  in  the 
sanctuary  of  the  domestic  circle.  My  task  is  simply  to  give  to 
the  world  the  promptings  of  her  inspiration.  Should  they  be 
received  with  the  smiles  of  favor,  she  may  be  encouraged  to  future 
exertion ;  but  should  the  tribunal  of  the  public,  before  which  she 
is  about  to  appear,  doom  liar  in  justice  to  eternal  oblivion,  let  her 
go  unlamented.  Whatever  the  decision  may  be,  there  is  no 
danger  of  my  pining  away  under  a  feeling  of  withering  neglect, 
the  common  result  of  poetic  aspirations. 


New-York,  December,  1852. 


Contents 


THE  PEASANT'S  SONG  OF  SPRING 11 

THE  PEASANTS  SONG  OF  SUMMER ]t 

THE  PEASANT'S  SONG  OF  AUTUMN 17 

TH  E  PEASANT'S  SONG  OF  WINTER 20 

BALLADS  OF  MEXICO : 

THE  DEPARTURE 23 

THE   GREAT  BATTLE  ON  THE  PLAIN  OF  C.CUTLA 2!) 

THE   CHRISTAN   CAMP   is   THE  GROVE  OF  PALMS,  AND  THE    PROCESSION  ON 

PALM  SUNDAY ' ?A 

THE  DREAM  OF  THE  AZTEC 40 

APOLLYON;  OR,  THE  DESTROYER 46 

THE  FAMINE;  OR,  THE  VIRTUES  OF  WANT 

THE  COVENANTERS 

TRUTH 

FREEDOM 71 

MERCY 71 

POLAND 76 

SCOTLAND 78 

THE  EMIGRANT'S  RETURN 7!) 

WHEN  FREEDOM  AN  EXILE  FROM  FOREIGN  LANDS  CAME 81 

THE  POET'S  FIRESI D K g3 

LINES  TO  MARY .  83 


CONTENTS. 


LINES  TO  ELLA 83 

ISRAEL  RESTORED 90 

THE  STARS •     94 

THE  DEPARTED 98 

A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  WORLD 10° 

THE  SLAVES  OF  AMBITION lft4 


THE  COQUETTE... 


106 


THE  WORLD  OF  FASHION Ul 

JENNY  LINO'S  SONG  OF  SWEDEN 115 

LINES  OV  THE  DEATH  OF  WILLIAM  HENRY  HARRISON 116 

LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  GENERAL  ZACHARY  TAYLOR 118 

KOSSUTH 12() 


THE  AUCTIONEER... 


122 


MY  BACHELOR  HEART 12G 


THE  ALBUM 


127 


THE  WELLS  O'  WEARIE 128 

THE  WINTER  SONG  OF  THE  SHEPHERD ••••   132 


AULD  DA  VIE 


135 


AULD  SNUFFIE 138 

LUCY  LEE J42 

LIZZIE  LAIRD 143 

JESSIE  PATERSON 14G 

MY  AIN  SWEET  JEAN 14S 

MY  BONNIE  WEE  LIZZIE 149 

THE  YOUNG  BRIDE  O'  MAVIS-BANK  HA' l-r>' 

ICANNA  LEAVE  MY  MINNIE J54 

DONALD  AND  LUCY 15G 

THE  SCENES  THAT  NEVER  WEARIE 158 

SWEET  ISABEL,  MY  DEARIE  0 16° 

HELEN,  THE  ROSE  OF  THE  GLEN 1G2 

ARCHIE  GRIEVE 16G 


0f  i\t 


SONGS  OF  THE  SEASONS, 


THE  PEASANT'S  SOXG  OF  SPRING. 

FAK  from  the  smoke  o'  the  sickly  toun, 
Let  me  blithely  spend  the  hale  year  roun'  • 
Where  the  mind  from  racking  care  is  free  ' 
As  the  April  clouds  that  over  me  flee. 

The  Spring  is  come  wi'  its  buds  and  flowers, 
Wi'  its  rainbows  bright  and  sunny  showers; 
An  emerald  robe  now  mantles  a' 
That  lately  was  wrapped  in  Winter's  snaw. 

The  streams,  from  their  strong  ice-fetters  free 
-Dash  on  with  their  waters  to  the  sea ; 
The  angler,  bent  on  his  finny  prize 
Heeds  little  the  tears  of  weeping  skies 


12  THE  PEASANT'S  SONG  OF  SPUING. 

Now  the  lilacs  wear  their  purple  plumes, 
And  the  hawthorn  hedge  is  white  wi'  blooms; 
And  the  willows  wave  their  tassels  green, 
Where  the  burnie  steals  alang  unseen. 

The  daisy,  tipped  wi'  a  fringe  o'  red, 
On  the  lea  shoots  up  its  modest  head ; 
The  bells  and  the  bonnie  cups  o'  gold 
Their,  sparkling  treasures  o'  dew-drops  hold. 

On  echoing  hills  the  lambies  bleat, 
Where  the  heather-linties  sing  sae  sweet ; 
And  the  woodland  glen  and  shady  grove 
Now  choral  ring  wi'  their  lays  o'  love. 

Oh !  the  laverocks  build  their  nests  and  woo 
In  the  fields  o'  clover  weet  wi'  dew  ; 
And  far  above,  on  fluttering  wing, 
They  warble  their  joyous  songs  o'  Spring. 

Mingled  sounds  o'  gladness  fill  the  air, 
And  the  broidered  sward  is  fresh  and  fair ; 
The  bursting  bud  and  the  leafy  tree 
Have  a  thousand  nameless  charms  to  me. 


THE  PEASANT'S  SONG  OF  SPRING.  13 

The  fields  I  plough,  and  the  seeds  I  sow, 
And  nursed  by  the  sun  the  harvests  grow ; 
My  roses  o'  health,  above  all  price, 
Can  never  bloom  in  the  haunts  o'  vice. 

Let  others  boast  o7  their  classic  lore, 
My  learning  is  drawn  from  Nature's  store; 
The  skylarks  up  from  the  meadows  spring, 
And  sweetly  teach  me  the  way  to  sing. 

For  a'  the  joys  that  the  toun  may  gie, 
The  peasant's  life  is  the  life  for  me, 
Where  Mind  is  led  from  the  flowery  sod, 
Through  Nature  away  to  Nature's  God. 


THE  PEASANT'S  SOKG  OF  SUMMER. 

Now  tripping  along  through  morning  dew, 
Blithe  Summer  comes  with  a  rosy  hue  ; 
To  greet  her,  the  hills  their  voices  raise, 
And  the  woodland  songsters  hymn  her  praise. 

Like  her  sister  Spring,  when  lately  seen, 
She 's  drest  in  a  vernal  robe  of  green  ; 
And  her  flowing  skirt  that  Nature  weaves 
Is  broidered  o'er  with  flowers  and  leaves. 

On  her  head  a  fragrant  wreath  she  wears, 
And  her  hand  a  golden  sceptre  bears ; 
Like  some  beauteous  queen,  with  regal  pride 
She  scatters  her  blessings  far  and  wide. 

She  passes  on  with  an  air  of  grace, 

And  roses  blush  on  her  bonnie  face  ; 

She  smiles  on  fields,  and  they  greener  grow ; 

She  breathes  on  flowers,  and  they  brighter  glow. 


THE  PEASANT'S  SONG  OF  SUMMER.  15 

Her  reign  is  sweet,  yet  anon  so  wild, 
She  is  wanton  as  a  playful  child ; 
She  unbinds  the  winds  that  howling  sweep, 
And  lash  the  waves  of  the  surging  deep. 

Oh !  she  tears  the  misty  veil  away 

From  the  mountain's  brow  where  lambkins  play. 

And  the  tainted  air  she  purifies 

With  her  flashing  lightning  from  the  skies. 

She  gives  her  scents  to  the  passing  breeze, 
And  ripens  the  fruit  on  bending  trees  ; 
She  points  to  the  fields  of  golden  grain, 
Which  tell  that  labor  is  not  in  vain. 

Where  the  humming  bees  in  blooming  dells 
Sweet  honey  sip  for  their  waxen  cells, 
The  sun  may  scorch,  but  she  nightly  showers 
Her  gentle  dews  on  the  drooping  flowers. 

Where  the  peasants  mow  on  yonder  lea, 
There  are  mingled  sounds  of  social  glee ; 
They  laugh  and  sing,  and  they  toil  away, 
And  of  withered  grass  make  russet  hay ; 


16  THE  PEASANT'S  SONG  OF  SUMMER. 

While  sets  the  sun  in  an  opal  sky, 
Away  to  their  cottage  homes  they  hie, 
And  the  smiles  of  Peace  aye  meet  them  there 
And  the  day  is  closed  with  grateful  prayer. 

I  love  the  fields,  and  to  Nature's  shrine 
My  heart  still  clings  like  a  clasping  vine ; 
With  bliss  so  pure,  and  with  joys  so  rife, 
Oh !  give  me  the  peasant's  happy  life  ! 


OF  THE 

UWVE&S1TY 


THE  PEASANT'S  SONG  OF  AUTUMN. 

THE  winds  sweep  by  with  a  mournful  tone, 
Telling  that  Summer  is  past  and  gone  ; 
The  leaves  are  sere,  and  genial  showers 
No  vigor  give  to  the  fading  flowers. 

There 's  a  withered  look  in  Nature's  face, 
And  her  steps  have  lost  their  vernal  grace ; 
But  what  though  she  seems  so  pale  and  wan, 
She 's  rich  with  stores  for  the  wants  of  man. 

Though  heaving  woods  toss  their  russet  plumes, 
And  the  fragrant  dells  are  strewn  with  blooms, 
To  the  peasant  bounteous  Autumn  yields 
The  treasures  of  all  her  golden  fields. 

Though  no  more  the  groves  and  forests  ring 
With  the  notes  of  rapture  wild  birds  sing, 
Afar  on  the  moorland  breeze  are  borne 
The  stirring  sounds  of  the  hunter's  horn. 


18  THE  PEASANT'S  SONG  OF  AUTUMN. 

By  the  crystal  brook  and  mountain  lake, 
In  the  ferny  dell  and  marshy  brake, 
Away,  where  the  lapwing  lonely  flies, 
The  keen  fowler  seeks  his  feathered  prize. 

The  peasant  is  up  at  break  of  day, 
And  off  to  his  harvest  fields  away ; 
"With  a  joyous  heart  unknown  to  care, 
He  whistles  some  love-inspiring  air. 

And  see  yonder  band  so  blithe  and  free, 
How  they  reap  and  sing  in  rustic  glee  ; 
In  the  sunbeams  flash  the  whetted  blades, 
Swept  by  hardy  hinds  and  buxom  maids. 

And  behold  the  gleaner  young  and  fair, 
"With  her  rosy  cheeks  and  yellow  hair  ; 
Content  with  her  poor  but  happy  lot, 
She  bears  her  sheaf  to  her  mother's  cot. 

Away  from  the  noise  of  city  strife, 
Give  me  rural  scenes  and  rural  life  ; 
Let  me  trip  o'er  hills  and  valleys  green, 
Where  slaves  of  fashion  are  never  seen. 


THE  PEASANT'S  SONG  OF  AUTUMN.  19 

Oh !  let  me  live  where  no  cares  annoy, 
To  taste  the  sweets  of  unmingled  joy ; 
And  abroad  with  Nature  let  me  roam, 
Till  called  away  to  a  better  home. 

When  life's  Autumn  comes,  as  come  it  will, 
And  my  beating  heart  is  cold  and  still, 
Where  pale  Sorrow  ne'er  may  vigils  keep, 
In  some  lone  spot  let  me  quietly  sleep. 


THE  PEASANT'S  SONG  OF  WINTER. 

AUTUMN  has  fled,  and  Winter  is  come, 
The  groves  are  mute,  and  the  birds  are  dumb ; 
The  winds  are  cold,  and  the  skies  are  gray, 
And  the  weary  sun  makes  short  the  day. 

And  the  gushing  streams  and  tiny  rills, 
That  danced  and  leapt  down  the  rugged  hills, 
And  meandered  through  the  withered  plains, 
Are  bound  in  fetters  of  icy  chains. 

Like  fragments  of  robes  that  seraphs  wear 
Now  the  fleecy  snow-flakes  fill  the  air ;  j 
And  the  crispy  earth  is  wrapt  in  white, 
And  moon  nor  stars  lend  now  their  light. 

But  snows  may  drift  and  the  clouds  may  scowl, 
The  hail  may  beat  and  the  tempest  howl ; 
They  bring  not  want  to  the  peasant's  door, 
Whose  thrift  has  garnered  his  winter  store. 


THE  PEASANT'S  SONG  OF  WINTEE.       21 

All  the  joy  he  feels  no  tongue  may  tell, 
For  love  and  peace  in  his  cottage  dwell ; 
And  he  scorns  the  slave  of  base  desires, 
While  he  lives  as  lived  his  honest  sires. 

Though  trees  are  stript  of  their  leafy  plumes, 
And  the  gardens  glow  no  more  with  blooms, 
Oh,  the  little  snow- drop,  sweetly  chaste, 
"Will  blossom  soon  on  the  hoary  waste ! 

Warm  suns  will  shine,  and  the  soft  winds  blow, 
And  rivers  swell  with  the  melting  snow, 
And  the  daisies  soon  again  be  seen, 
And  the  teeming  fields  be  clothed  in  green. 

Torpid  Nature  into  life  will  spring, 
The  orchard  bloom  and  the  skylark  sing ; 
While  the  swallows  back  again  will  come, 
And  the  woodlands  be  no  longer  dumb. 

The  bees  will  steal  from  their  cloistered  cells, 
To  gather  sweets  from  the  cups  and  bells, 
And  the  dreary  mountains  joyful  be, 

When  Nature  is  set  from  Winter  free. 
2* 


22  THE  PEASANT'S  SONG  OF  WINTER. 

So  the  changing  seasons  come  and  go, 
While  the  springs  of  life  still  onward  flow ; 
And  faith  and  hope  cheer  the  peasant's  end, 
When  the  chilling  dews  of  death  descend. 

He  knows,  when  his  earthly  race  is  run, 
That  the  golden  prize  of  life  is  won ; 
He  goes  to  a  better  land  than  this, 
To  traverse  fields  of  eternal  bliss ! 


BALLADS     OF    MEXICO. 


STfje 

CORTEZ,  suspecting  that  Velasquez,  the  Governor,  would  deprive  him 
of  his  commission  as  Captain-General  of  the  expedition,  leaves  St.  Jago 
clandestinely,  at  midnight,  November  18th,  1518.  He  lands  at  Trinidad, 
and  erects  his  standard,  of  "black  velvet,  embroidered  with  gold,  and 
emblazoned  with  a  red  cross,  amidst  flames  of  blue  and  white,  with  this 
motto  in  Latin  beneath  :  'Friends,  let  us  follow  the  Cross;  and  under  this 
sign,  if  we  have  faith,  we  shall  conquer,'  »  He  receives  reinforcements  at 
Trinidad  and  Havana.  At  Cape  St.  Antonio,  the  appointed  place  of  ren 
dezvous,  he  harangues  his  soldiers  upon  the  greatness  and  importance  of 
the  enterprise.  Celebration  of  Mass  :  dancing  of  the  Indian  allies :  final 
departure  for  the  coast  of  Yucatan,  February  1 8th,  1519. 

IT  was  midnight  in  the  tropics  ;  the  islands  were  asleep, 
And  bright  the  starry  welkin  was  mirrored  in  the  deep  : 
It  was  midnight  in  the  tropics,  when  Cortez  and  his  crew 
To  friends  in  St.  Jago  bade  a  quick  and  last  adieu. 

0 

Ho !  the  anchors  they  are  weighed,  the  sails  spread  to  the 

breeze, 
Now  soon  the  little  squadron  will  plough  the  Indian  seas : 


24  BALLADS  OF  MEXICO. 

"Brave  cavaliers  and  comrades,"  the  chief  was  heard  to 

say, 
"Valiant  will  Velasquez  be,  if  he  our  course  can  stay." 

At  gray  break  of  early  dawn,  that  streaks  the  eastern  sky, 
And  awakes  to  busy  life  all  that  hushed  in  slumber  lie, 
Soon  spread  in  St.  Jago  the  spirit-stirring  tale, 
That  Cortez  and  his  faithful  band  already  had  set  sail. 

There  was  bustling  in  the  streets,  there  was  running  to 

the  shore, 

On  wings  of  wind  the  tidings  flew  all  sunny  Cuba  o'er  ; 
Since  pious  benedictions  were  showered  on  every  head — 
Gould  glory  fail  to  follow  where  Spanish  valor  led  ? 

Amid  strains  of  martial  airs  and  the  sounds  of  merry  song, 
The  little  navy  speeds  its  way  the  island-coast  along : 
What  heed  the  fearless  mariners,  though  winds  and  bil 
lows  rave  ? 
The  good  San  Pedro  will  protect  the  gallant  and  the  brave. 

The  manly  Cortez  walks  the  deck ;  he  dreams  of  con 
quests  vast, 
And  o'er  him  streams  his  pennon  from  the  gently-bending 

mast ; 


BALLADS  OF  MEXICO.  25 

His  thoughts  are  of  the  future,  not  of  those  he  leaves 

behind ; 
Ambition's  airy  visions  flit  across  his  ardent  mind. 

The  motley  troops  soon  land  again  ;  no  braver  e'er  were 

seen ; 

And  soon  a  tented  camp  appears  upon  the  flowery  green : 
Banners  now  are  flaunting  gaily,  while  loud  from  shore  to 

shore 
The  cannon  and  the  falconets  their  deafening  thunders 

roar. 

With  blooming  flowers  deck  beauty,  ring  the  bells  of 

Trinidad, 
Drink  the  wines  of  Andalusia,  let  each  saddened  heart  be 

glad; 

From  Havana  and  Matanzas  all  ye  daring  spirits  come — 
Oh  !  hear  ye  not  the  bugle  and  the  rolling  of  the  drum  ? 

There  are  marches  and  parades,  and  reviews  and  active 

drills, 

There  is  music  in  the  valleys,  there  are  echoes  on  the  hills ; 
The  peasants  leave  the  plough  for  the  buckler  and  the 

spear, 
And  rally  round  the  standard  of  the  gallant  cavalier. 


26  BALLADS  OF  MEXICO. 

From  fountains  warm  and  tender  there  gushed  the  crystal 

tide, 
The  husband  left  his  spouse,  and  the  bridegroom  left  his 

bride : 
Proud  hearts  were  bounding  high,  and  fair  bosoms  heaved 

with  pain, 
And  fond  lips  met  that  parting  day  that  never  met  again. 

Before  his  soldiers  stood  the  chief  who  knew  no  slavish 
fear, 

Before  their  chief  the  soldiers  stood,  devoted  and  sincere ; 

With  helmets  bright  and  waving  plumes,  they  round  him 
closely  pressed, 

When  Cortez  to  his  volunteers  these  stirring  words  ad 
dressed  : 

"  Ye  gentlemen  of  Arragon,  of  Leon  and  Castile  ! 
I  trust  in  this  great  enterprise  ye  bear  unblemished  steel : 
Grand  ends  can  only  be  secured  by  long  incessant  toils, 
And  only  to  the  brave  belong  the  victor's  golden  spoils. 

"  Be  loyal  to  your  sovereign  and  to  the  Spanish  crown, 
And  win  the  hero's  fadeless  wreath  of  honor  and  renown ! 
Then  all  the  proud  distinctions  and  treasures  may  be  yours, 
And  all  the  dearest  guerdons  bright  that  chivalry  secures. 


BALLADS  OF  MEXICO.  27 

il  While  loyal  to  your  sovereign,  be  to  your  chieftain  true, 
As,  friends  and  brave  hidalgos !  he  '11  ever  be  to  you : 
And  by  that  gold-broidered  banner,  and  the  red  cross  that 

ye  see, 
And  this  Toledo  blade  he  wears,  he  '11  with  the  boldest  be. 

"  Oh !  where  is  fair  Granada  that  Castilian  arms  defied  ? 
And  where  is  the  Alhambra  in  all  her  ancient  pride  ? 
Did  not  your  valiant  fathers  subdue  the  Moorish  braves, 
And  where  paled  the  Crescent  moon,  the  Cross  in  triumph 
waves  ? 

"  The  blood  that  ye  inherit  from  your  chivalrous  sires 

To  deeds  of  splendid  daring  and  manly  valor  fires ; 

Ye  go,  to  conquer  kingdoms  more  fair  than   Europe 

claims ; 
Ye  go,  to  make  each  name  ye  bear  a  heritage  of  Fame's. 

"  Though  your  numbers  are  but  few,  your  cause  is  great 

and  just, 
And  who   can  say  we  may  not  lay  proud  empires  in  the 

dust? 
With  arms  so  strong,  and  hearts  so  bold,  and  aspirations 

pure, 
My  friends  and  fellow-countrymen,  our  victory  is  sure. 


28  BALLADS   OF  MEXICO. 

"  On,  then,  ye  soldiers  of  the  Cross  1  we  leave  this  island- 
shore  ; 

Our  well-manned  fleet  will  nobly  ride  the  waste  of  waters 
o'er: 

We  leave  our  homes,  we  risk  our  all,  high  honors  to  attain, 

When  we  return  our  days  to  spend  in  our  beloved  Spain." 

Ho !  sounds  of  loud  rejoicing  now  rent  the  tropic  air, 
And  some  the  priest  Olmedo  joined  in  fervent  chanting 

prayer ; 
In  the  sunbeams  lances  gleamed,  and  war-steeds   gaily 

pranced, 
And  platoons  of  dusky  Indians  to  music  wildly  danced. 

The  fleet  has  left  its  moorings,  and  ere  the  day  is  done, 
Far  on  the  dim  horizon's  verge  toward  the  setting  sun 
The  brigantines  and  caravels,  with  their  white  canvas 

wings, 
Are  faintly  seen  by  anxious  eyes,  like  dim  departing 

things. 


BALLADS  OF  MEXICO.  29 


SSattle  on  tfje  $tain  of 


CORTEZ,  hearing  that  "  the  country  was  every  where  in  arms,"  and  being 
cooped  up  in  the  city  of  Tabasco,  which  he  had  taken  possession  of  for 
the  crown  of  Castile,  prepares  to  leave  it,  and  march  against  the  Indians, 
who  are  encamped  on  the  Plain  of  Ceutla.  He  reviews  his  army,  and 
appoints  his  officers  to  their  respective  commands.  Prescott  says  :  "  The 
General  commanded  that  Ordaz  should  march  with  the  foot,  including 
the  artillery,  directly  across  the  country,  and  attack  them  in  front  ;  while 
he  himself  would  fetch  a  circuit  with  the  horse,  and  turn  their  flank,  when 
thus  engaged,  or  fall  upon  their  rear."  The  Spaniards  leave  Tabasco  :  the 
sunrise  of  the  misty  morning  :  the  appearance  of  the  Tabascans,  and  their 
hideous  battle-cries  :  the  thunders  of  the  cannon  during  the  battle  :  the 
arrival  of  Cortez  with  his  small  troop  of  cavalry  :  St.  James,  the  patron 
Saint  of  Spain,  is  seen  heading  the  rescue,  mounted  on  his  gray  war-horse  : 
the  Indians,  panic-stricken,  "  supposing  the  rider  and  the  horse,  which 
they  had  never  before  seen,  to  be  one  and  the  same,"  fling  away  their 
arms,  and  fly  off  in  confusion. 

WITHIN  Tabasco's  wooden  walls, 

The  streets  with  music  ring  ; 
"Within  Tabasco's  Pagan  halls, 
The  Christians  matins  sing  : 
'T  is  early  morn  of  Lady  Day,  the  flowers  still  drink  the 

dews, 
While  gallantly  the  cavalier  his  faithful  band  reviews. 

The  chief's  Castilian  prancing  steed 
His  rider  proudly  bears  ; 


30  BALLADS   OF   MEXICO. 

The  offspring  of  a  noble  breed, 

A  noble  look  he  wears. 

He  seems  the  Babieca,  on  which  rode  the  Cid  of  Spain, 
That  neighing,  longs  to  trample  down  the  Infidels  again. 

See,  Cortez  heads  the  cavalry, 
A  small  but  valiant  band  ; 
And  Ordaz  of  the  infantry 

Now  bravely  takes  command. 
Come,  Olid,  Leon,  Avila ;  come,  gallant  Alvarado, 
Fight  like  your  sires  who  crushed  the  Moors,  the  brave 
Moors  of  Granada ! 

The  pennons  stream,  the  banners  wave, 

The  trumpets  loudly  blow ; 
While  from  Tabasco  march  the  brave, 

To  fight  the  Indian  foe. 
No  fears  have  they  who  draw  the  sword,  so  burning  is  the 

zeal 
Of  those  who  battle  for  the  Cross,  and  the  glory  of  Castile. 

O'er  fields  of  maize  and  dripping  grass, 

O'er  marshes  rank  and  wide, 
The  glittering  troops  of  Christians  pass, 

With  steps  of  martial  pride, 


BALLADS  OF  MEXICO.  31 

Till  sounds  of  barbarous  minstrelsy  break  on  eacli  startled 

ear, 
And  dimly  seeming  legions  of  the  dusky  foes  appear. 

Eound  as  Minerva's  gilded  shield 

That  on  her  temple  stood, 
The  sun  springs  up  o'er  Ceutla's  field, 

Eed  as  a  globe  of  blood ; 

And  melts  the  misty  covering  where,  marshalled,  are  con 
cealed 

Full  forty  thousand  armed  men,  who  savage  weapons 
wield. 

Now  loudly  wild  Tabascans  yell, 
And  curse  the  Spanish  name  ; 
So,  Mesa,  charge  the  cannon  well, 

And  fire  with  deadly  aim : 

To  hostile  ranks  confusion  send,  and  soon  the  fierce  array 
Of  feather-crested  warriors  shall  vanquished  flee  away. 

The  Indians  stretching  far  and  wide, 

"With  lightning  in  their  glance, 
JSTow,  quick  as  flows  the  surging  tide, 

'Mid  savage  cries  advance : 


32  BALLADS  OF  MEXICO. 

On  helmet,  buckler,  escaupil,  in  showers  their  arrows 

fall, 
But  fail  to  kill,  while  on  their  gods  they  frantic  loudly 

call. 

The  heavy  guns  their  thunders  roar, 

The  marshy  meadows  shake ; 
And  echoes,  never  heard  before, 
From  slumber  startled  wake. 

The  horrid  scene  of  smoking  blood  the  boldest  heart  ap 
pals, 
And  priests  and  gods  alike  are  dumb  to  patriotic  calls. 

The  death-storm  rages  on  the  plain 
Where  slaughtered  thousands  lie ; 
And  files,  that  open,  close  again 

Where  balls  and  arrows  fly : 

The  weary  Christians,  closely  pressed  by  a  brave  and  stub 
born  foe, 

With  spear  in  hand,  deal  right  and  left  full  many  a  deadly 
blow. 

But  see !  yon  Indian  columns  heave 
With  panic-struck  dismay ; 


BALLADS  OF  MEXICO.  33 

'T  is  Cortez  and  his  horsemen  cleave 

Through  maddened  ranks  their  way ! 
"  San  Jago  and  San  Pedro !"  the  soldiers  bravely  cry, 
And  dash  through  fierce  battalions,  that  now  affrighted  fly. 

The  eye  of  Faith  without  a  stain, 

Undimmed  by  guilf  or  doubt, 
Could  clearly  see  the  Saint  of  Spain 

The  Unbelievers  rout, 
Well  mounted  on  his  gray  war-horse,  like  some  chivalrous 

knight, 

Who  proudly  throws  the  gauntlet  down,  for  lady  fair  to 
fight. 

The  combat 's  o'er ;  this  awful  morn, 

So  pregnant  with  dark  fears, 
Shows  squadrons  slain,  and  banners  torn, 

And  bloody  swords  and  spears  : 
But  now  the  sun  propitious  shines  where  all  was  sullen 

gloom ; 
The  Christians  march  to  victory — the  Pagans  to  their  doom ! 


34  BALLADS   OF   MEXICO. 


Christian  Camp  tit  tfje  (Srobe  of  Bairns,  antr  t&e 
procession  on  $alm  Suntraa?. 


THE  Spaniards  leave  the  battle-field,  and  retire  to  a  palm-tree  grove, 
where  they  offer  up  thanksgivings  to  the  Almighty  for  their  victory  over 
the  Tabascans.  Cortez  sends  away  his  captive  warriors  with  a  message 
to  their  countrymen.  A  deputation  of  inferior  chiefs  comes  and  craves 
leave  to  bury  their  dead.  The  granting  of  the  request  :  arrival  of  the 
nobles  and  a  numerous  train  of  vassals  at  the  Christian  camp:  their 
splendid  reception  :  Olmedo  and  Diaz  enlighten  their  minds  respecting  the 
mysteries  of  the  Faith  :  the  solemn  procession  on  Palm  Sunday  :  the  image 
of  the  Indian  deity  deposed,  to  make  room  for  that  of  the  Virgin  :  the 
celebration  of  Mass:  the  Indians  moved  to  tears:  departure  of  the 
Spaniards  for  the  coast  of  Mexico. 

SOME  have  an  air  of  triumph,  and  some  dejected  look  ; 
Some  hasten  to  the  gushing  stream  that  feeds  the  little 

brook  : 
While  leaning  on  their  comrades,  with  measured  step  and 

slow, 
The  wounded  and  the  weary  across  the  moorland  go. 


In  the  flower-enamelled  grove  where  tower  the  stately 

palms, 
The  Spanish  troops  victorious  peal  forth  thanksgiving 

psalms  ; 


BALLADS  OF  MEXICO.  35 

While  some  are  counting  o'er  their  beads  and  round  their 

standard  cling, 
With  Te  Deum  Laudamus  fen  and  woodland  sweetly  ring. 

Hurrah  !    hurrah  !    for  Chivalry — hurrah  !    for  gallant 

Spain — 
Hurrah  !  hurrah !  long  live  the  King,  and  glorious  be  his 

reign ! 
One  loud  hurrah  for  Cortez  now,  whose  flag  triumphant 

waves ! 
He  comes  to  scatter  seeds  of  Peace,  and  break  the  chains 

of  slaves. 

"  Stand  forth,  ye  captive  warriors,"  says  Cortez,  loud  and 

stern ; 

"I  hope  ye  may  from  this  sad  day  a  lasting  lesson  learn. 
Back  to  your  homes  unharmed  return,  but  tell  your  friends 

from  me, 
That  some  of  your  Caciques  and  Chiefs  I  soon  expect  to 

see. 

"And,  gentlemen,  pray  tell   them   too,"  he  adds  with 

haughty  air, 
11  That  they  to  my  liege  lord  the  King  must  quick  their 

fealty  swear;* 


36  BALLADS  OF  MEXICO. 

Or  by  the  great  San  Pedro  and  the  honor  of  my  word, 
All,  all  that  in  Tabasco  live  shall  perish  by  the  sword !" 

Away  they  with  the  tidings  speed ;  and  early  on  next 
morn, 

A  band  of  wretched  men  appear  in  garments  spare  and 
torn : 

"  Great  Chief!  we  come  with  heavy  heart,  and  your  per 
mission  crave 

To  carry  off  our  slaughtered  friends,  and  lay  them  in  the 
grave." 

"  The  leave  you  ask,  Tabascans !  at  once  I  freely  give, 
And  none  shall  e'er  be  harmed  by  me  who  wish  in  peace 

to  live ; 
But  quickly  your  Caciques  must  come,  for,  troth,  it  is  not 

meet 
That  I  who  represent  a  King  should  with  inferiors  treat." 

Soon  a  long  and  motley  train  through  the  stately  maize 

is  seen ; 

Now  they  skirt  a  hacidnda,  now  cross  savannahs  green  ; 
And  now  they  tread  the  meadow  where  the  tall  grass 

gently  waves : 
'T  is  the  nobles  and  their  vassals,  with  a  score  of  female 

slaves. 


BALLADS   OF  MEXICO.  37 

Straight  as  palm-trees  walk  the  men,  with  a  firm  and 
noble  air, 

But  some  look  gaunt. and  savage  with  their  black  and 
flowing  hair ; 

The  slaves-— oh !  what  can  be  their  hopes  and  what  can 
be  their  fears  ? 

For  some  skip  lightly  o'er  the  sward,  and  some  are  shed 
ding  tears. 

Now  they  leap  a  little  stream,  and  they  pass  a  flowery 

swamp, 
And  'mid  music  sweetly  pealing,  they  reach  the  Spanish 

camp, 

Where  Cortez  and  his  gallant  staff  assume  an  air  of  state, 
And,  like  true  gentlemen  of  Spain,  upon  the  nobles  wait. 

'Mid  greetings  and  rejoicings,  and  many  nameless  queries, 
The  Christians  with  the  Pagans  quaff  the  good  old  wines 

of  Xeres : 

Oh,  soon  forget  the  soldiers  all  their  sorrow  and  their  pain, 
And  sing  to  the  Indian  damsels  the  witching  airs  of  Spain. 

Now  Diaz  and  Olmedo,  whom' faith  and  love  inspire, 
The  heathen  hearts  soon  melt  with  sparks  of  sacred  fire : 
Can  it  be  the  work  of  grace,  or  the  logic  of  the  sword, 
That  so  rapidly  extends  the  kingdom  of  the  Lord  ? 


3 


38  BALLADS   OF  MEXICO. 

The  merry  night  is  past,  and  the  bugle  and  the  horn 
Awake  the  camp,  and  usher  in  a  sunny  Sabbath  morn : 
The  wild  birds  from  the  meadow  in  countless  numbers 

spring, 
And  lovely  flowers  that   gem  the   grove  around  their 

fragrance  fling. 

Before  they  leave  in  gladness  this  fair  but  goldless  land, 
The  Christians  in  procession,  with  a  palm-branch  each  in 

hand, 
Through  sheeny  dew  in  gay  review  before  their  chieftain 

pass, 
Then  march  in  pomp  to  celebrate  the  sacrifice  of  Mass. 

See,  the  amice  round  the  neck  is  negligently  flung, 
The  chasuble  of  purple  o'er  the  alb  of  white  is  hung ; 
The  girdle  and  the  maniple,  and  richly  broidered  stole, 
Adorn  the  holy  fathers  who  gravely  head  the  whole. 

Behind  them  walk  the  pages  who  sacred  symbols  hold, 
The  censor,  and  the  chalice,  and  crucifix  of  gold  ; 
One  bears  the  Cross  in  front  with  a  cassock  long  and  dun, 
And  one  a  golden  Virgin  with  her  ever-blessed  Son. 

With  curved  necks  like  a  crescent  next  come  the  mettled 

steeds, 
And  Cortez  on  his  charger  like  some  knight-errant  leads ; 


BALLADS   OF   MEXICO.  39 

Caparisoned  so  richly  and  decked  with  garlands  fair — 
Oh,  well  may  the  Tabascans  in  wonder  mutely  stare. 

Now,  with  a  gallant  bearing,  the  infantry  advance, 
And  flashing  in  the  sunbeams  are  musket,  spear,  and  lance ; 
The  banners  are  unfurled  and  flaunt  gaily  in  the  train  : 
Ah,  't  is  a  pageant  worthy  of  the  chivalry  of  Spain. 

Ere  long  they  reach  the  temple ;  and  within  its  gloomy 

walls, 
The  hideous  god  is  quick  deposed,  and  headlong  down  it 

falls ; 

A  sweetly-sculptured  Mary,  with  a  radiant  face  divine, 
Soon  fills  its  place,  and  smiles  on  all  who  worship  at  the 

shrine. 

Some  say  the  Pater  Noster,  and  some  an  Ave  utter, 
Some  Angelus  Domini  in  hurried  accents  mutter  ; 
While  others  join  the  chant  and  devoutly  bend  the  knee, 
Like  true  Christian  cavaliers,  Almighty  God !  to  Thee. 

The  dark,  sun-bronzed  Tabascans,  illumined  in  the  faith; 
That  points  to  bliss  eternal  beyond  the  shades  of  death, 
"Who  have  nobly  dangers  braved,  and  have  no  coward 

fears, 
Stand,  a  spectacle  to  move  the  heart,  with  eyes  suffused 

in  tears. 


40  BALLADS   OF   MEXICO. 

Hark  !  now  the  clarion  peals,  and  deeply  rolls  the  drum, 
And  see,  in  glittering  splendor,  away  the  Spaniards  come ; 
They  still  bear  their  incensed  palms  as  they  had  clone 

before, 
And  as  they  to  the  temple  marched,  so  march  they  to  the 

shore. 

Freshly  blow  the  tropic  winds,  and  on  a  surging  tide 
.  Once  more  the  Spanish  caravels  the  rolling  billows  ride : 
Hurrah !  hurrah  I  they  bravely  leave  Tabasco's  burning 

strand ; 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  for  Mexico,  the  glorious  gulden  land  ! 


THE  Emperor  Montezuma  retires  to  his  bower  in  the  garden  when  he 
hears  of  the  massacre  of  Cholula,  and  the  determination  of  the  Spaniards 
to  visit  him  in  his  own  city,  and  broods  over  his  inevitable  destiny.  He 
falls  asleep,  and  Quetzalcoatl  appears  to  him  in  a  dream,  the  benevolent 
deity  who  had  long  abandoned  the  country,  and  of  whom  it  is  said, 
"  When  he  reached  the  shore  of  the  Mexican  Gulf,  he  took  leave  of  his 
followers,  promising  that  he  and  his  descendants  would  revisit  them  here 
after,  and  then  entering  his  wizard  skiff,  made  of  serpents'  skins,  em 
barked  on  the  great  ocean  for  the  fabled  land  of  Tlapallan."  Tradition 
and  mythology  say  that  "under  him  the  earth  teemed  with  fruits  and 


BALLADS   OF  MEXICO.  41 

flowers,"  and  that  "  the  air  was  filled  with  intoxicating  perfumes,  and  the 
sweet  melody  of  birds."  The  awful  predictions  of  the  vision,  and  the 
dismal  apprehensions  of  Montezuma. 

IN  the  vale  of  Anahuac,  like  glory's  golden  crown, 
Behind  the  porphyry  mountains  the  sun  is  going  down ; 
While  the  Aztec  Montezuma  to  his  garden  bower  repairs, 
But  his  eyes  are  downward  cast,  and  a  troubled  look  he 
wears. 

On  his  feet  are  burnished  sandals,  on  his  head  a  plume  of 
green, 

And  his  feathered  tilmatli  is  gemmed  with  stones  of  spark 
ling  sheen. 

Cascades  are  leaping  by  his  path,  and  woodland  minstrels 
sing, 

While  shrubs  and  brilliant  flowers  around  delightful  odors 
fling. 

What  to  him  are  battle  trophies  and  bannered  palace  ^alls, 
Where  feast  his  nobles  and  his  priests  in  palm-leaf  matted 

halls? 
What  to  him  his  jewelled  crown  and  the  pageantry  of 

state, 
When  his  mighty  heart  is  crushed,  and  he  bends  beneath. 

the  weight  ? 
3* 


42  BALLADS   OF   MEXICO. 

Pavilioned  in  Ms  fragrant  bower,  he  seeks  a  brief  repose 
From  his  court-harassing  cares  and  the  fear  of  coming 

woes ; 
The  passing  zephyrs  gently  fan  the  swarthy  monarch's 

brow, 
And  dreams  of  dark  forebodings  disturb  his  slumber  now. 

A  vision  stands  before  him  with  a  lofty  god-like  air, 
And  a  dark  and  flowing  beard  such  as  mortals  never  wear ; 
He  seems  like  some  good  aged  seer  whose  race  is  nearly 


run: 


Oh !  comes  he  from  Tlapallan  or  the  region  of  the  Sun  ? 

"  Submission  to  the  laws  of  Fate  a  monarch  well  beseems ; 
I  am  the  long-departed  god  who  haunts  you  in  your 

dreams ; 
I  come  my  mountain  land  to  claim,  far  from  an  eastern 

shore, 
To  scatter  blessings  o'er  the  realm,  as  in  the  days  of  yore. 

"  "What  though  the  sanguine  Tlaloc  showered  no  reviving 
rain, 

I  ever  plenty  sent  to  all  throughout  this  wide  domain ; 

In  Anahuac's  halcyon  days  no  desert  spots  were  seen, 

And  clothed  were  hills,  that  now  are  bare,  in  rich  peren 
nial  green. 


BALLADS   OF  MEXICO.  43 

"The  air  was  filled  with,  sweet  perfumes,  birds  ever  joy 
ous  sang ; 

With  music  wild  and  ravishing  the  rocks  and  Valley  rang. 

Now,  a  mildew  blights  the  flowers,  and  a  gloom  pervades 
the  land, 

O'er  which  I  waved  in  glory  enchantment's  golden  wand. 

"You  tremble,  Montezuma!  Why  starts  the  coward 
tear? 

Be  worthy  of  your  princely  race :  the  brave  ne'er  shake 
with  fear. 

Your  very  days  are  numbered  now ;  from  Fate  you  can 
not  fly ; 

And,  as  an  Aztec  you  have  lived,  so  like  an  Aztec  die. 

"The  pale  mysterious  strangers  in  pomp  and  triumph 
come, 

And  yet,  unhappy  monarch,  your  oracles  are  dumb ; 

They  climb  the  steep  sierra,  they  march  o'er  wastes  of 
snow, 

And  fierce  Tlascalans  swell  their  ranks,  your  most  abhor 
rent  foe. 

» 

"Showers  of  arrows  harmless  fall,  and  Caciques  in  anger 

frown, 
Yet  the  temples  they  despoil  and  the  idols  tumble  down ; 


44  BALLADS  OF  MEXICO. 

Lightnings  flash  and  thunders  roar  in  their  victorious 

path; 
They  surely  are   the  ministers   of   Heaven's    avenging 

wrath. 

"  Impervious  is  the  armor  of  the  Children  of  the  Sun, 
"Who  bring  a  purer  faith  than  yours,  and  have  no  gods 

but  one ; 

They  speak  of  man's  redemption  and  universal  love, 
And  tell  of  glorious  mansions  in  a  happy  world  above. 

"  They  soon  shall  reach  your  city  gates,  soon  all  your 

treasures  claim, 

For  to  those  bold  invaders  no  terror  has  your  name : 
You  cannot  stay  their  onward  course,  so  for  the  worst 

prepare ; 
Where  your  tasselled  thongs  are  hanging  you  soon  shall 

fetters  wear. 

"All  your  gods  shall  quickly  vanish,  and  never  more 

return, 

And  palace  and  teocalli  in  flames  terrific  burn ; 
Ascending  smoke  shall  blacken  yon  blue  and  cloudless 

sky, 
And  your  boasted  Tenochtitlan  in  wide-spread  ashes  lie. 


OF  THE 


OF 

£du 

BALLADS   OF   MEXICO. 

"The  waters  of  Tezcuco  shall  be  crimsoned  with  the 

blood 
Of  valiant  Aztec  soldiers,  who  the  brunt  of  wars  have 

stood ; 
Your  subjects  that  are  spared,  with  a  sad  and  broken 

heart, 
Shall  from  fair  Anahuac  in  wretchedness  depart. 

"  In  vain  you  trust  your  bloody  priests,  and  on  your  gods 
rely, 

Whose  altars  smoke  with  hecatombs  that  loud  for  ven 
geance  cry : 

The  tribes  who  loathe  your  very  name,  yet  fear  your 
dreadful  sway, 

Shall  with  a  hellish  laugh  behold  your  empire  pass  away." 

As  gathering  mists  the  mountain  hide,  the  phantom  dis 
appears  ; 

The  sweat  falls  from  the  monarch's  brow,  whose  eyes  are 
dim  with  tears ; 

He  weeps,  whose  royal  will  is  law,  who  never  brooked 
control ; 

The  vision  and  his  dismal  dream  sink  deep  into  his  soul. 


APOLLYOtf ;  OR,  THE  DESTROYER. 

Lo!  Man  shuddered  and  trembled  when  Sin  gave  me 

birth, 

And  Omnipotence  crowned  me  dark  lord  of  the  earth : 
In  my  right  hand  he  placed  a  dread  sceptre,  to  wave 
O'er  his  creatures,  all  guilty,  and  doomed  to  the  grave. 

Unseen  as  the  whirlwinds  that  fiercely  pass  over 
Wild  regions  that  wisdom  hath  yet  to  discover, 
I  sweep  through  the  bounds  of  all  peopled  creation, 
Jehovah's  grand  agent  of  dire  desolation. 

I  career  through  the  world  on  a  mystical  steed, 
That  is  swifter  by  far  than  a  thunderbolt's  speed, 
Join  the  wild  howling  tempest,  'mid  thunder  and  gloom, 
And  the  life-blasting  march  of  the  desert  Simoom. 

Brooding  Murder  I  saw  stain  the  pure  virgin  sod, 
Till  it  blushed,  and  cried  out  in  loud  accents  to  God, 
"Who  in  wrath,  with  a  curse  and  a  withering  vow, 
Set  a  mark  of  red  guilt  on  the  homicide's  brow. 


APOLLYON  ;  OK,  THE  DESTROYER.         47 

Dark  dominion  I  held  when  fair  Virtue  was  spurned 
From  the  bosom  of  man,  where  foul  wickedness  burned ; 
And  Yice  reared  her  vile  altars  in  every  clime, 
Till  e'en  hell  rung  with  joy  at  the  triumph  of  crime. 

When  the  elements  raged,  and  the  red  lightnings  flashed, 
And  the  loftiest  hills  by  the  billows  were  lashed, 
And  the  mountain-tops  rung  with  the  shrieks  of  despair, 
In  the  deluge  I  plunged — the  last  wretch  that  was  there. 

When  sulphur  and  fire  rained  in  torrents  from  heaven, 
Till  thousands  expired,  with  their  crimes  unforgiven, 
'Mid  the  crashing  of  cities,  and  horror,  and  pain, 
I  triumphantly  swept  all  the  dark  smoking  plain. 

All  the  empires  of  old,  that  were  rivals  in  guilt, 
And  cemented  their  walls  with  the  blood  they  had  spilt, 
From  existence  have  passed ;  and  the  vile  and  the  just, 
With  their  temples  and  idols,  lie  mingled  in  dust. 

Ere  dark  priestly  creeds  every  knd  had  enslaved, 
Or  the  sceptre  of  power  by  a  monarch  been  waved — 
Ere  a  sword  had  been  forged,  or  a  diadem  worn, 
Sad  bereavements  taught  Pity  to  weep  and  to  mourn. 


48  APOLLYON  ;    OR,    THE  DESTROYER. 

Ere  the  lamp-burning  Magi  had  darkly  begun, 
Like  the  priests  of  Osiris,  to  worship  the  sun— 
Ere  the  fable-sprung  Brahma's  dread  name  had  been 

feared, 
Shapeless  structures,  to   mark  out  my  triumphs,  were 

reared. 

Ere  India  could  boast  of  her  rock-sculptured  isle, 

Or  young  Science  had  built  her  huge  fanes  on  the  Nile — 

Ay,  long,  long  ere  the  East  with  her  light  had  been 

blessed, 
Human  frailty  succumbed  at  my  awful  behest. 

Ere  the  Druids,  white-robed,  paid  grave  honors  divine 
To  Albion's  green  oaks  and  the  sweet-flowing  Ehine, 
Wildly  chanting  their  hymns   where  fire-shrines  were 

lighted, 
To  me  bowed  a  world  in  dark  error  benighted. 

I  reigned  ere  Saturn,  or  Ammon,  or  goat-bearded  Pan 
Their  grim  empire  maintained  o'er  the  worship  of  man, 
And  ere  Virtue  and  Truth  ever  dared  to  assail 
The  altars,  blood-stained,  of  Astarte  and  Baal. 

Though  old  Time,  like  myself,  has  grown  hoary  in  crime, 
And  complacently  views  all  his  trophies  sublime, 


OR,   THE   DESTROYER.  49 

Ere  his  ruins,  wide-spread  by  my  subjects,  were  built, 
Nature's  debt  had  been  paid,  and  man's  blood  had  been 

spilt. 

When  Egypt's  proud  king,  with  his  satraps  and  slaves, 
Shrieked  in  terror,  the  sport  of  infuriate  waves, 
Lo  !  I  stood  and  threw  o'er  them  my  mystical  pall, 
And  the  billows  obedient  passed  over  them  all. 

When  Sennacherib's  host  for  darkness  and  error, 
For  carnage  and  conquest,  destruction  and  terror, 
Was  at  midnight  asleep  on  the  tent-covered  plain, 
On  it  lightning  I  breathed,  and  it  ne'er  woke  again. 

The  rude  land  of  vast  wastes  and  of  primitive  rule, 
Where  the  Hadjis  encamp  by  streams  grateful  and  cool, 
With  its  wandering  tribes  still  unconquered  and  free, 
Has  for  thousands  of  years  paid  large  tribute  to  me. 

Grave  Antiquity  proudly  oft  points  to  the  land 
Where  its  pyramids  lofty  still  sullenly  stand ; 
But  its  kingdom,  and  crimes,  and  wisdom,  and  glory, 
Alike  with  its  annals,  live  darkly  in  story. 

Fierce  avengers  besieged  the  proud  city  of  old, 

And  its  walls  tumbled  down,  as  the  prophets  foretold ; 


50  APOLLYON  ;    OR,   THE  DESTROYEK. 

And  now  vampires  and  owls  feed  their  ravenous  brood, 
And  beasts  dismally  howl,  where  great  Babylon  stood. 

Where  is  Nineveh  now  ?     'Tis  a  desolate  scene, 
Swept  away  from  the  earth,  as  it  never  had  been ; 
And  the  cities  of  Commerce  that  stood  by  the  sea 
Gave  their  walls  to  Decay,  and  their  people  to  me. 

Sounds  of  gladness  and  mirth  are  unheard,  as  of  yore, 
And  the  wilderness  rings  with  sweet  music  no  more ; 
For  Palmyra's  lone  columns  sublimely  declare 
That  the  last  of  its  people  sleep  motionless  there. 

Where  hoar  Winter  sits  throned  on  his  high  peaks  of 


snow, 


Viewing  Summer,  all  smiling  in  valleys  below, 
Stern  Invasion  I've  seen,  with  his  hosts  from  afar, 
Cover  Syria's  plains  with  the  horrors  of  war. 

From  the  Persian,  and  Mede,  and  star-gazing  Chaldee, 
Becollection  reverts,  old  Damascus,  to  thee : 
Where  in  fresh  beauty  grow  the  palm,  cypress,  and  rose, 
Lie  the  ashes  of  armies  in  dreamless  repose. 

What  rich  harvests  I've  reaped  on  thy  beautiful  plain  ; 
And  the  changes  I've  seen  I  may  ne'er  see  again : 


OK,   THE  DESTKOYEE.  51 

Side  by  side,  friend  and  foe,  and  heap  piled  upon  heap, 
The  Jew,  Moslem,  Crusader,  and  fierce  Tartar  sleep. 

JMid  thy  desolate  ruins  sits  rampant  Decay, 

0  Baal-bee !  sun- worshipper  passing  away ! 

Where  once  teemed  busy  life  reigns  a  silence  profound, 
And  thy  glory  and  pride  topple  fast  to  the  ground. 

Thy  columns  Corinthian  still  splendidly  stand, 
Disputing  the  power  of  Time's  levelling  hand ; 
Though  dismantled  and  sacked  by  rude  Caliphs'  dread 

arms, 
Yet  still  lovely  thou  art  'mid  thy  perishing  charms. 

Salem !  where  are  thy  kings  and  thy  mighty  men  now, 
And  the  glittering  crowns  that  once  graced  their  proud 

brow  ? 

Ah !  fulfilled  are  the  words  of  thy  prophets  at  last, 
And  the  sceptre  of  Judah  for  ever  hath  passed. 

1  still  lurk  in  thy  streets,  narrow,  close,  and  unclean, 
Where  Destruction  and  Slaughter  triumphant  have  been  ; 
But  no  sounds  are  e'er  heard  of  deep  sorrow,  to  wail 
The  mute  millions  that  sleep  in  Jehoshaphat's  vale. 


52  APOLLYON  ;    OR,    THE   DESTROYER. 

I  have  seen  gallant  armies  thy  temples  defend, 
And  grave  creed  after  creed  thy  possession  contend : 
Now  the  Crescent  surmounts  mosque  and  tall  minaret, 
"Where  the  royal  bard  sung,  and  the  Sanhedrim  met. 

The  sky  deepened  in  gloom,  earth  trembled  in  wonder, 
Heaven's  armory  flashed,  and  rocks  rent  asunder — - 
I  myself  stood  appalled,  when  HE,  to  save  mortals, 
Passed  through  my  dim  shadows  and  entered  my  portals. 

Unrestrained  'mong  the  hills  of  Libanus  I  rove, 
And  still  linger,  unseen,  by  stream,  fountain,  and  grove, 
And  where  mountains  Armenian  sublimely  arise, 
Till  their  snow-covered  summits  are  lost  in  the  skies. 

Greece !  thy  sun  sadly  set  o'er  thy  valleys  and  plains, 
And  where  plenty  once  smiled  desolation  now  reigns ; 
Hordes  unsparing  kept  Carnage  and  Euin  at  work — 
Noble  prey  for  fell  Eoman,  Goth,  Yandal,  and  Turk ! 

Classic  land !  thy  lore  is  the  Present  pervading, 
Encircling  thy  name  in  a  glory  unfading ; 
Beacon -light  of  the  Past !  thy  poets  and  sages, 
Enshrined  in  their  splendor,  shall  live  through  all  ages. 


APOLLYON  ;    OR,    THE  DESTROYER.  53 

On  thy  rock-rugged  shore,  since  I  first  o'er  thee  ranged, 
All — all,  save  the  face  of  rough  Nature,  is  changed ; 
To  thy  herbage  she  still  imparts  dews  and  fresh  showers, 
And  the  bees  gather  sweets  from  Hymettus'  fair  flowers. 

All  thine  altars  and  fanes  now  in  wide  ruin  lie, 
Haughty  Carthage,  who  dared  with  Earth's  mistress  to 

vie! 

Like  Phoenicia,  thy  mother,  thou  liv'st  but  in  name, 
And  the  world  little  knows  of  thy  glory  or  shame. 

Where  are  they  who  marched  forth  at  thy  war-trumpet's 

call, 

In  barbarian  pomp,  from  ISTumidia  and  Gaul  ? 
Where  are  Hannibal's  troops,  renowned  only  to  yield 
To  my  terrible  sword  on  the  fierce  battle-field  ? 

When  thine  armies  were  slain,  and  thy  fleets  were  de 
stroyed, 

Eevenge,  reeking  with  blood,  in  wild  ecstasy  joyed  ; 
When  Eome's  merciless  victors  thy  walls  were  around, 
Amid  curses  and  flames  thou  wert  razed  to  the  ground. 

Where,  oh  where,  Syracuse,  all  thy  splendor  of  yore, 
In  the  sunbeams  that  gleamed  and  flashed  bright  on  thy 

shore, 

4* 


54:  APOLLYON  ;    OR,    THE  DESTKOYEK. 

"When  thy  prowess  so  bold,  near  thy  perilous  coast, 
Crushed  the  proudest  armada  that  Athens  could  boast  ? 

Since  Koine's  greedy  eagles  first  perched  on  thy  rocks, 
"War's  hell-hounds  of    Carnage  and  Earthquake's   dire 

shocks 

Have  conspired  as  one  foe,  until,  weary  at  length, 
Flushed  Success  prostrate  laid  all  thy  beauty  and  strength. 

Eome,  stupendous  and  grand,  from  obscurity  rose, 
Built  its  splendor  on  ruins,  and  plunder,  and  woes ; 
To  the  dust  thrones  and  states  were  successively  hurled, 
Till  the  wings  of  its  eagle  o'ershadowed  the  world. 

Where  is  mighty  Home  now,  and  the  gods  it  adored — 
And  its  empire,  marked  out  with  a  blood-reeking  sword  ? 
The  sad  tales  of  a  fierce,  lawless  anarchy  tell 
How,  crime-bloated  and  gorged,  self-subverted,  it  fell. 

Oh,  ye  nations  that  live,  ye  shall  too  pass  away ; 
Even  now  ye  show  symptoms  of  certain  decay : 
And  if  Eeason,  and  Truth,  and  fair  Virtue  but  lead, 
Old  Corruption  will  die,  and  new  systems  succeed. 

Sceptred  princes  and  lordlings  must  bow  at  my  throne, 
Where  all  rank  and  distinction  alike  are  unknown ; 


APOLLYON  ;    OR,    THE  DESTROYER.  55 

For  the  monarch  and  peasant,  the  master  and  slave, 
Are  but  food  for  the  worms  that  inhabit  the  grave. 

Yes !  the  mother  in  fondness  may  dote  on  her  child, 
And  her  bosom  with  hopes  all  delusive  be  filled ; 
But  in  mercy  I  breathe — and,  all  sinless,  it  dies, 
Like  the  snowflake  unstained  as  it  falls  from  the  skies. 

And  the  maiden  all  sprightly  may  dance  at  the  ball — 
Like  a  goddess  of  beauty,  be  worshipped  by  all — 
And  her  looks  and  her  air  length  of  days  may  bespeak ; 
But  I  lurk  'neath  the  rose  that  blooms  fair  on  her  cheek. 

Lovers,  tender,  and  young,  and  devoted,  and  warm, 
"With  no  doubts  to  perplex,  nor  dark  fears  to  alarm, 
Eesign  life  at  my  will ;  and  vows  that  are  plighted, 
With  Hope's  fairest  blossoms,  lie  prostrate  and  blighted. 

Virtue,  Peace,  and  Contentment,  all  smiling  and  sweet, 
Throw  their  charms  round  the  hearth  where  its  glad 

members  meet ; 

But  how  altered  their  looks,  and  how  mournful  the  scene, 
When  pale  Sorrow  tells,  weeping,  where  late  I  have  been  1 

Sweet  minstrels  may  sing  of  deeds  deathless  in  story, 
And  bards  tell  of  Carnage—so  falsely  called  Glory ; 


56  APOLLYON  ;    OR,    THE  DESTROYER. 

But  I  come — and  the  soul-stirring  notes  of  their  lyre 
Are  unheard  in  the  halls  they  were  wont  to  inspire. 

The  wan,  shivering  wreck  of  God's  image  may  quaff, 
In  mean  circles,  where  loudly  profane  scoffers  laugh ; 
But  I  nod — and  the  clamorous  drunkard  is  mute, 
And  Derision  expires  in  the  hope  of  the  brute. 

The  vile  miser  may  worship  his  coffers  of  gold, 

Till  old  age  bleach  his  locks,  and  his  last  knell  is  tolled ; 

And  when,  as  a  captive  unwilling,  I  bind  him, 

May  cling  to  his  idol — but  leaves  it  behind  him. 

The  dissembler,  smooth-faced,  puts  his  trust  in  a  name, 
And  oft  climbs  up  the  Cross  to  high  honors  and  fame ; 
But  I  seize  him  at  last,  with  his  world-cankered  heart, 
And  a  conscience  more  keen  than  a  death-dealing  dart. 

Heroes,  haughty  and  proud,  at  my  withering  frown, 
All  their  blood-crimsoned  wreaths  and  their  trophies  lay 

down; 

And  the  insolent  hand  of  Oppression  is  crushed, 
And  the  voice  of  the  babbler  and  demagogue  hushed. 

Turbancd  ruffian  the  dazzling  tiara  may  wear, 
And  fell  wretches  the  will  of  the  tyrant  declare ; 


APOLLYON;    OK,   THE   DESTROYER.  57 

But  they  shiver  and  reel,  coward-like,  when  I  come — 
Give  a  shudder  and  groan,  and  for  ever  are  dumb. 

Yea,  bold,  daring  aspirants  may  pant  for  renown, 
And  e'en  lofty  Ambition  may  grasp  at  a  crown : 
Poor  impotent  fools  !  I  but  flap  my  dark  pinions, 
And  lo !  they  are  dashed  to  my  breathless  dominions. 

Oh,  had  dungeons  but  tongues,  to  tell  mortals  below 
Crime's  unregistered  deeds,  which  they  never  can  know  1 
For  Oblivion's  black  wings  still  securely  conceal 
The  foul  guilt  and  the  murders  of  bigoted  Zeal 

Victorious  I  ride  o'er  the  red  battle-ground, 
Where  I  marshal  my  shadows  and  compass  it  round ; 
And  where  Pestilence  dire,  as  my  herald  of  wrath, 
With  its  victims  all  writhing,  strews  thickly  my  path. 

When  winds  lash  the  waves  into  fury  and  madness, 
And  mariners'  songs  change  to  wailing  and  sadness, 
Undismayed,  robed  in  lightnings,  the  world  I  defy, 
Throned  on  billows  that  toss  their  proud  crests  to  the  sky. 

When  earth's  fiery  depths  in  hot  fury  I  enter, 
The  planet  convulses  and  heaves  to  its  centre : 


58  APOLLYOK;  on,  THE  DESTROYER. 

More  fierce  glow  volcanoes,  while  the  lava  moves  on, 
Till  tower,  temple,  and  city  are  all  overthrown. 

My  trophies  are  millions  of  millions,  that  slumber 
All  speechless  and  still  as  the  dust  they  encumber : 
The  Future  mysterious  must  share  the  same  doom — 
Tread  the  path  of  the  Past,  and  be  laid  in  the  tomb. 

Ever  onward  in  triumph  my  course  shall  I  speed, 
Through  the  mazes  of  time,  on  my  lightning- winged  steed, 
And  when  systems  and  suns  from  their  spheres  shall  be 

hurled, 
I'll  expire  in  the  flames  of  a  perishing  world. 


THE  FAMINE ;  OR,  THE  VIRTUES  OF  WANT. 


BEHOLD  !  the  squalid  sons  of  Want 
In  thousands  pace  the  street, 

And  Sorrow's  cloud  hangs  dark  upon 
The  brows  of  all  you  meet. 

In  wretched  hovels  mothers  pine, 
And  children  cry  for  bread ; 

While  the  anguish  of  a  father's  heart 
In  heavings  may  be  read. 

The  depths  of  grief  are  fathomless 
That  whelm  the  human  mind, 

When  mute  Despair  to  nature's  call 
No  utterance  can  find. 

See  parents  with  their  little  ones 
Their  last  sad  morsel  share, 

And  strangely  gaze  around  their  cot, 
All  desolate  and  bare. 


THE  FAMINE;  OK,  THE  VIRTUES  OF  WANT. 

Their  household  things  have  one  by  one 

For  food  been  pledged  or  sold ; 
But  all  their  nameless  pangs  remain, 

Unwritten  and  untold. 

Some  bid  their  wretched  home  adieu, 

Sad  spectacle  of  woe ! 
They  bundle  up  their  little  all, 

And  forth  as  wanderers  go. 

The  storm  is  drifting  on  the  hills, 
The  moors  look  cold  and  bleak ; 

While  Famine's  wan  and  starving  band 
A  place  of  shelter  seek. 

Night,  wrapped  in  fearful  gloom,  draws  near ; 

'Tis  now  the  close  of  day  ; 
And  to  yon  lordly  hall  of  pride 

Behold  them  wend  their  way. 

Anon  they  stand ;  at  last  they  reach 

The  massive,  sculptured  gate ; 
The  husband,  sad,  proceeds  alone, 

His  wife,  and  children  wait. 


THE  FAMINE;  on,  THE  VIRTUES  OF  WANT.        61 

Now  fast  and  thick  tlic  snow-flakes  fall, 

While  little  offspring  numb 
Cling  close  around  maternal  Love, 

All  shivering  and  dumb. 

The  mother  hugs  her  dying  babe, 

"Weeps  o'er  her  tender  trust, 
Yet  wonders  why  she  suffers  so, 

Since  Grod  is  great  and  just. 

How  many  hearts  are  crushed  by  Want, 

And  in  despondence  sink ! 
Some  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave 

The  gall  of  anguish  drink. 

But  hush !  the  watch-dog's  bark,  aloud, 
Sounds  fiercely  through  the  trees, 

And  faintly  music's  strains  are  borne 
Upon  the  stormy  breeze. 

The  bell  is  rung;  a  menial  comes — 

A  haughty  liv'ried  knave, 
Who  struts  and  apes  the  great,  and  yet 

His  master's  fawning  slave, 
5 


62  THE  FAMINE;    OK,   THE  VIRTUES  OF  WANT. 

"  What  brings  you  here,"  lie  rudely  says, 
"  Where  mirth  goes  bravely  on? 
I'll  set  old  Nero  at  your  heels : 
Be  off!  away!  begone  1" 

Kepulsed,  unheard,  he  meekly  leaves, 

But  oh !  his  bosom  burns 
With  quenchless  love  for  those  to  whom 

Heart-broken  he  returns. 

"  God's  will  be  done !"  his  wife  exclaims, 
"  We  can  no  farther  go ; 
The  heath  must  be  our  place  of  rest, 
Our  winding  sheet  the  snow !" 

"  Dear  wife,  behold !  the  star  of  hope 
Gleams  from  yon  shepherd's  hut ; 
'Tis  rare  the  dwellings  of  the  poor 
Against  the  poor  are  shut. 

"  Despair  not !  we  may  live  to  see 

A  smiling  home  once  more ; 
These  little  ones  all  nicely  clad 
As  they  have  been  before." 


THE   FAMINE;    OK,   THE  VIRTUES  OF  WANT.  63 

"Way- worn  they  reach  the  humble  door 

Of  unassuming  "Worth ; 
And  soon  are  snugly  placed  around 

The  welcome  blazing  hearth. 

Retired,  upon  a  bed  of  straw, 

No  cover  o'er  them  spread, 
The  morrow  comes — the  mother  wakes, 

And  lo !  her  babe  is  dead. 

This  is  no  fancied,  idle  tale ; 

'Tis  Truth  that  gravely  speaks, 
And  calls  aloud  in  melting  tones 

That  "Want  assistance  seeks. 

Poor  orphans  wander  shelterless, 

A  paltry  pittance  crave ; 
And  some,  alas !  soon  pine  away, 

To  fill  an  early  grave. 

The  widow's  face  is  bathed  in  tears, 

And  furrowed  deep  by  care ; 
In  sombre  weeds  she  mutely  stands, 

The  image  of  Despair. 


64       THE  FAMINE;  OK,  THE  VIRTUES  OF  WANT. 

A  little  boy,  her  darling  child, 

Her  only  pledge  of  love, 
A  fond  attachment  manifests 

That  would  a  stoic  move. 

Oh !  spurn  thou  not  the  trembling  maid 
Whose  tears  thine  aid  implore ; 

'Tis  Virtue  clothed  in  rags,  that  stands 
A  beggar  at  thy  door. 

Back  to  your  dens,  ye  hungry  wolves, 
That  pant  for  spotless  prey : 

The  child  of  Penury  hath  charms 
Gold  cannot  lure  away. 

Nursed  in  the  lap  of  Poverty, 
And  fed  by  Christian  hands, 

Crouch,  Yice !  before  her  wasted  form, 
She  thy  superior  stands. 

And  see  Old  Age,  a  mendicant 
On  life's  lone  verge,  appears ; 

He  craves,  receives,  a  blessing  gives, 
And  thanks  the  God  he  fears. 


THE  FAMINE;  OR,  THE  VIRTUES  OF  WANT.        65 

0  meek-eyed  Charity !  go  forth, 

And  with  thee  take  Eelief, 
To  cheer  Despondency  and  stem 

The  gushing  tide  of  grief. 

The  drooping  and  the  helpless  raise  ; 

Keen,  anguished  feelings  calm  ; 
And  into  riven  hearts  infuse 

A  soothing,  healing  balm. 

While  wretched  Suffering  eats  the  bread 

By  Pity  freely  given, 
Lo !  kneeling  Gratitude  implores 

The  richest  gifts  of  Heaven. 


THE  COYENAUTEBS. 


"LTiiEY  lived  unknown 
Till  Persecution  dragged  them  into  fame, 
And  chased  them  up  to  heaven."  COWPEB. 


ALL  hail,  Caledonia  I  and  hail  to  thy  towers, 
Thy  landscapes  so  lovely,  and  wild  shaded  bowers ; 
To  thy  mountains,  that  once  in  sweet  melody  rung, 
And  reechoed  the  songs  that  our  forefathers  sung. 

At  Pentland  and  Bothwell,  the  blood  of  the  slain 
Gushed  forth  in  red  torrents  and  dewed  the  green  plain ; 
At  Aird's  Moss  the  faithful  assembled  together, 
And  sung  their  last  song  'mid  the  wild  blooming  heather. 

O  Fancy !  go  back  to  those  dark  stirring  times, 
When  Bigotry  revelled  in  carnage  and  crimes, 
And  visit  the  heath  where  the  remnant  were  scattered, 
And  their  pale  wasted  forms  lay  bloody  and  shattered, 


THE  COVENANTERS.  67 

Though  stern  Persecution  stands  circled  in  gloom, 
Pointing  out  with  his  sabre  the  path  to  the  tomb, 
They,  true  to  their  Master,  in  faith  yet  unshaken, 
"With  sweet  songs  of  Zion  the  wild  waste  awaken. 

Hark !  a  trumpet  sounds  loudly ;  the  foe  is  advancing, 
The  horsemen  look  fierce,  and  the  war-steeds  are  prancing : 
In  the  breeze  blowing  softly  their  banners  are  streaming, 
And  bright  in  the  sunbeams  their  helmets  are  gleaming. 

Frowns  shadow  their  brows  as  they  shout,  as  they  yell, 
Like  demons  let  loose  from  the  fetters  of  hell ; 
And  with  lances  still  reeking  with  blood  they  have  spilt, 
Heaven-daring  and  reckless,  plunge  deeper  in  guilt. 

The  war-tempest  rages ;  the  lightnings  are  flashing ; 
Through  the  smoke-shrouded  ranks  the  coursers  are  dash 
ing; 

The  brands  of  destruction  are  fearfully  flying, 
And  deep  are  the  groans  of  the  wounded  and  dying. 

Brave  Cameron's  band,  to  their  Covenant  true, 
Whom  gold  could  not  tempt  nor  Oppression  subdue, 
Bound  their  standard  all  tattered,  still  spurning  to  yield, 
With  their  leader  unbending,  expire  on  the  field. 


68  THE    COVENANTERS. 

Humanity  shudders  at  horrors  so  strange, 
And  deep  are  the  breathings  of  burning  Eevenge : 
Bold  Courage  still  lingers,  mild  Mercy  hath  fled, 
And  Freedom  weeps  mournfully  over  the  dead. 

O  Scotland !  though  dark  be  the  page  of  thy  story, 
Names  stainless  cast  o'er  thee  a  halo  of  glory ; 
Ay,  names  that  posterity  proudly  shall  cherish, 
And  shrine  in  affection  that  never  can  perish. 

Thy  daisy-decked  valleys  and  heath-covered  hills, 
Thy  sweet-flowing  streams  and  thy  wild-gushing  rills, 
Still  tell  how  thy  verdure  and  waters  were  stained 
With  our  forefathers'  blood  ere  thy  freedom  was  gained. 

The  merciless  bigot,  in  fury  and  wrath, 
May  spread  desolation  and  crimson  his  path — 
For  a  season  the  murmurs  of  Freedom  be  hushed, 
But  its  spirit  by  mortals  can  never  be  crushed. 

It  lives  and  will  live !  nor  can  it  be  driven 

By  despots  away  to  its  birth-place  in  Heaven. 

It  lives  and  will  live !  till  Time's  knell  shall  be  rung, 

And  the  funeral  dirge  of  Oppression  be  sung. 


TRUTH. 

ETERNAL  Truth !  rear  high  thy  crest, 

In  all  thy  splendor  shine, 
Where  countless  millions  long  oppressed 

In  mental  darkness  pine. 

Subvert  all  false  and  hollow  creeds, 
And  blood-stained  shrines  o'erthrow ; 

Uproot  all  rank  and  deadly  weeds 
That  in  Mind's  empire  grow. 

Lead  Knowledge  to  benighted  climes, 

The  human  will  direct ; 
Change  sounds  of  chains  to  church-bell  chimes ; 

Thy  sceptre,  Faith,  protect. 

Thy  temples  build  on  every  height, 

Dash  idols  to  the  ground, 
That  mankind,  basking  in  thy  light, 

May  worshippers  be  found. 


70  TEUTH. 

Imperial  tyrants  curse  thy  name, 
And  tremble  at  thy  glance ; 

And  turbaned  slaves  of  vice  and  shame 
Eeel  back  at  thy  advance. 

The  fetters  that  the  mind  enslave 

Melt  at  thy  touch  divine ; ' 
Thy  radiant  glory  gilds  the  grave, 

And  marks  its  moral  thine. 

No  earth-born,  crawling  thing  art  thou, 

No  breathing  form  of  clay ; 
Death's  pallid  seal  ne'er  stamped  thy  brow 

To  mark  thee  for  decay. 

Thy  name  is  blazoned  on  God's  throne, 

Thy  banner  is  the  sky, 
On  which  for  ages  stars  have  shone, 

And  hymned  thy  praise  on  high. 

Celestial  Truth !  dispel  all  gloom, 

And  in  thy  glory  reign, 
That  guilty  earth  may  smile  and  bloom 

A  Paradise  again. 


FREEDOM. 

WHO  dare  reverse  the  glorious  plan 

Of  Him  who  freedom  gave, 
Who  never  made  his  creature  man 

To  be  a  crouching  slave  ? 
As  waves  majestic  chainless  roll 

When  tempests  sweep  the  sea, 
So,  with  his  mind  and  deathless  soul, 

Man  is  created  free. 

But  yet  cloud-cradled  lightnings  sleep, 

And  thunderbolts  repose, 
While  millions  slaughtered  kindred  weep 

In  agonizing  woes. 
And  tyrants  laugh  where  Freedom  dies, 

And  songs  exulting  sing ; 
While  widows'  wails  and  orphans'  cries 

Make  vale  and  mountain  ring. 


72  FREEDOM. 

Shall  stern  Oppression,  wrapt  in  gloom, 

Its  purple  course  still  run, 
And  make  Earth  but  a  hopeless  tomb 

Eevolving  round  the  sun  ? 
Forbid,  Great  God  of  Truth  and  Grace! 

Thine  awful  vengeance  spare ; 
But  speed  the  time  when  all  our  race 

True  happiness  may  share. 

Immortal  Freedom !  stand  thou  forth, 

Thy  potent  sceptre  wield, 
That  it  may  be  to  moral  worth 

A  buckler  and  a  shield. 
Let  Virtue  on  thy  standard  shine, 

And  Truth,  the  fairest  gem 
That  e'er  was  formed  by  Power  divine, 

Adorn  thy  diadem. 

Let  Justice  mark  thy  grand  career, 

Man's  welfare  be  thine  end, 
That  in  his  breast  love,  hope,  and  fear, 

Like  rainbow  hues,  may  blend. 
No  more  let  ruffian  hands  profane 

The  temples  thou  hast  built, 
Nor  yet  thy  sacred  altars  stain 

With  marks  of  scarlet  guilt. 


FKEEDOM.  73 

Thy  blessings  rich,  diffuse  to  all ; 

Let  "War's  dread  trumpet  cease, 
And  freemen  gather  at  thy  call 

To  welcome  smiling  Peace. 
But  while  thy  sons  their  fealty  swear, 

And  round  thy  banner  cling, 
Let  not  Ambition  discord  e'er 

Into  thy  councils  fling. 

Lands  of  the  earth !  in  love  unite, 

And  bow  to  Reason's  sway ; 
Then  systems  false,  upheld  by  might, 

Shall  swiftly  pass  away. 
No  more  shall  rage  the  fearful  storm 

That  steeps  the  world  in  blood, 
For  mankind  will  sublimely  form 

One  glorious  brotherhood. 


MERCY. 

Lo !  Mercy  in  her  chariot  bright 
Hides  o'er  the  earth  to  save, 

And  lead  from  moral  gloom  to  light 
The  poor  benighted  slave. 

Love  smiles  on  her  celestial  crest, 

Love  is  her  charioteer ; 
Love  reigns  and  triumphs  in  her  breast, 

Inspired  with  holy  fear. 

The  Olive  decks  her  radiant  brow, 
Faith  consecrates  her  shrine, 

Where  all  the  angel  virtues  bow 
To  bless  her  name  divine. 

In  melting  accents  mild  she  speaks, 
And  pleads  in  strains  sublime ; 

But  wears  no  weapon  foul,  that  reeks 
With  deeds  of  scarlet  crime. 


MERCY.  75 

On  may  she  ride  from  shore  to  shore, 

Till  she  in  triumph  wave 
Her  fair,  unsullied  banner  o'er 

The  bleeding,  fettered  slave. 

And  may  her  kingdom  still  extend, 

Till  tyrant  flags  are  furled, 
And  Freedom  chains  asunder  rend 

That  bind  the  suppliant  world. 


POLAND. 

As  the  sun-light  expires  at  the  parting  of  day, 
So  the  light  of  thy  beauty  hath  faded  away ; 
The  harps  of  thy  minstrels  are  still  as  the  grave, 
No  more  may  they  ring  to  the  call  of  the  brave ; 
For  Freedom  and  Mercy  have  fled  from  thy  plains, 
And  nought  save  the  wreck  of  thy  splendor  remains. 

Thy  vales,  that  have  pealed  to  the  conflict  aloud, 

And  thy  mountains  and  streams,  have  been  crimsoned 

with  blood. 

'Mid  the  turmoil  and  tempest  of  carnage  and  woe, 
Thy  proud  eagle  soared,  and  long  baffled  the  foe, 
Till  Oppression's  black  banner  hung  dismally  o'er  thee, 
And  Hope  on  the  field  lay  expiring  before  thee! 

The  mother  hath  kneeled  for  the  life  of  her  child, 
And  the  cry  of  the  maiden  been  frantic  and  wild ; 


POLAND.  77 

But  the  merciless  vulture  hath,  pounced  on  his  prey, 
And  the  breeze  swept  their  soul-piercing  waitings  away. 
The  hearts  of  the  slaughtered  have  bled  to  the  core, 
And  that  which  was  Poland  is  Poland  no  more ! 

Shall  thy  children  for  ever  be  wedded  to  pain  ? 
Shall  thy  exiles  ne'er  look  on  their  country  again  ? 
And  wilt  thou  for  ever  be  deluged  with  blood, 
Nor  the  cry  of  thy  vanquished  ascend  unto  God  ? 
Oh !  would  that  the  clouds  of  his  thunder  might  rend, 
And  wrath  in  a  chariot  of  lightning  descend  I 

The  voice  of  her  anguish  hath  rung  to  the  sky — 
Oh !  yet  let  the  tide  of  roused  feeling  roll  high, 
As  wave  follows  wave  on  the  wide-heaving  main, 
Till  that  which  was  Poland  be  Poland  again  ; 
Till  Heaven's  bright  sceptre  shall  scatter  the  gloom, 
And  Freedom  triumphant  arise  from  her  tomb ! 


<?* 


SCOTLAND. 

MY  country !  my  country !  I'll  love  thee  for  ever ! 
Fair  land  of  my  birth ;  I  forget  thee  will  never : 
Though  severed  from  thee  by  the  deep -heaving  main, 
Hope's  whispers  still  tell  me  I'll  see  thee  again — 
Truth  reigning  triumphant,  thy  shores  uninvaded, 
Thy  beauty  unshorn,  and  thy  thistle  unfaded. 

When  Summer  makes  Nature  her  glories  disclose, 
When  Winter  is  robed  in  her  mantle  of  snows, 
And  withers  the  flowerets  that  deck  the  gay  scene, 
Thy  THISTLE  stands  forth  in  its  garment  of  green. 
Proud  emblem  of  freedom !  disdaining  to  crouch, 
The  tyrant  reels  back  at  its  deep-piercing  touch ; 

He  cannot,  he  dare  not,  its  beauty  deform, 
For  boldly  it  stands  'mid  the  tempest  and  storm. 
Oh !  long  may  it  wave  on  the  green  mountain  side, 
Unfading  as  Truth  in  the  strength  of  its  pride : 
Then  spare  it,  0  Time,  from  the  wrecks  of  decay, 
Till  Nature  expires  and  the  hills  melt  away. 


THE  EMIGRANT'S  RETUM. 
3Ltnes  toritten  on  tfje  Atlantic  <Dceait,  1839. 

OH  !  with  a  thrilling  joy  have  I  crossed  the  main, 
The  land  of  my  birth  to  revisit  again ; 
The  ocean's  rude  Alps  I  have  journeyed  o'er 
To  kneel  once  again  on  old  Scotia's  shore. 

While  sleepless  I  mused  on  my  rocking  pillow, 
The  ship  dashing  on  o'er  the  crested  billow, 
My  heart,  beating  high  like  the  heaving  sea, 
Still  clung  with  devotion,  my  country,  to  thee ! 

I've  stood  in  the  hall  Wisdom  claims  as  her  own, 
Where  erst  valor  and  worth  reared  a  kingless  throne, 
And  patriots  vowed  that  no  tyrant  on  earth 
Should  ever  enslave  the  dear  land  of  their  birth. 

I  have  wandered  o'er  fields,  'neath  a  burning  sun, 
Where  the  battles  of  Freedom  were  fought  and  won ; 
And  with  rapturous  awe  have  I  speechless  stood 
Where  Niagara  rolls  its  eternal  flood, 


80 


I  have  trod  o'er  the  plains  where  war's  thunders  pealed, 
And  his  dread  lightnings  flashed  o'er  a  purple  field ; 
And  with  feelings  by  sad  recollection  fired, 
Have  I  sat  on  the  spot  where  brave  "Wolfe  expired. 

I  have  rode  on  the  glorious  waters  blue, 
Where  lightly  of  yore  skimmed  the  bark  canoe, 
Where  the  stars  and  the  stripes  now  proudly  wave 
O'er  the  Indian's  hut  and  the  bleeding  slave. 

But  give  me  the  land  where  the  heather  and  broom 
Scent  the  mountain  and  glen  with  a  sweet  perfume ; 
Let  me  wander  again  by  my  native  streams, 
Which  have  murmured  so  oft  in  my  midnight  dreams. 

Oh  I  to  hear  once  again  on  the  hawthorn  bush 
The  ravishing  notes  of  the  black-bird  and  thrush, 
And  the  lays  of  the  lark  warbling  sweetly  on  high, 
And  the  voice  of  the  stream  wimpling  cheerily  by. 

Then  give  me,  oh  give  me  the  land  of  my  birth — 
The  sweetest,  the  fairest,  the  dearest  on  earth. 
0  Scotland !  brave  Scotland !  the  home  of  the  free, 
May  thy  sons  never  feel  less  devoted  to  thee  ! 


WHEN  FREEDOM  AN  EXILE  FROM  FOREIGN  LANDS  CAME. 


Freedom  an  exile  from  foreign  lands  came, 
Soon  hill,  grove,  and  valley  rang  loud  with  her  name; 
War's  shrill-sounding  bugles  forth  summoned  our  sires 
To  fight  for  their  country,  their  altars,  and  fires. 

Hope's  star,  that  gleamed  dimly,  shines  constant  and  clear, 
ISTo  foes  on  our  borders  now  hostile  appear  ; 
No  war-worn  and  weary  their  slain  comrades  weep, 
The  sword  7s  in  its  scabbard,  and  there  let  it  sleep. 

Our  commerce  thrives  briskly,  our  sails  stud  the  sea, 
Our  flag  it  waves  proudly,  to  shelter  the  free  ; 
With  hearts  beating  grateful,  and  plenty  in  store, 
We  welcome  the  stranger  that  comes  to  our  shore. 

As  falls  the  dew  gently  on  mountain  and  lea, 
So  fall  Heaven's  blessings,  Columbia  !  on  thee  : 
Thy  sons,  like  thy  eagles,  no  foe  can  enslave, 
Thy  daughters  weave  garlands  to  honor  the  brave. 


82 


The  arm  be  quick  blasted,  and  withered  the  hand, 
That  treason  would  scatter  throughout  our  wide  land ! 
The  tree  that  bears  blossoms  so  rich  and  so  fair, 
Oh !  who  would  e'er  rudely  its  branches  impair ! 


THE  POET'S  FIEESIDE. 

YES  I  there  is  one  above  all  others 

Fondly  still  who  clings  to  me, 
With  love  more  strong  than  e'en  a  mother's — • 

Dearest  wife  1  'tis  thee,  'tis  thee ! 

Thee  have  I  found  each  waking  morrow 

In  my  heart  a  reigning  queen ; 
Partaker  of  my  joy  and  sorrow, 

All  I've  felt  and  all  I've  been. 

Ah !  could  such  love  be  ever  riven  ? 

Could  such  love  be  felt  again  ? 
Sealed  by  the  holy  stamp  of  Heaven, 

Could  our  hearts  be  torn  in  twain  ? 

No !  years  love's  fetters  only  strengthen, 
Draw  them  close  and  closer  still, 

And  as  they  tighten,  pure  joys  lengthen — « 
Slaves  obedient  to  the  will. 


84  THE  POET'S  FIRESIDE. 

Sweet  Peace  and  Love  reign  in  my  dwelling, 
Constant  inmates,  scorning  show : 

Blest  wedded  pair !  for  ever  smiling, 
Hand  in  hand,  through  life  they  go. 

Fools  may  seek  tainted  springs  of  pleasure, 
"Wealth  its  transient  joys  may  find, 

But  Heaven  grant  me  the  lasting  treasure 
Of  a  calm,  contented  mind. 

The  way  to  bliss,  I  see  it  clearly, 
Would  mankind  could  only  see  I 

The  little  sphere  I  love  so  dearly 
Is  a  world  of  bliss  to  me. 

My  children  I  rose-buds  young  and  tender, 
Snow-flakes  yet  without  a  stain, 

With  rapture,  all  they  have  to  render, 
Kiss  me  o'er  and  o'er  again. 

Then  why  kneel  at  the  shrine  of  folly  ? 

Why  desert  the  social  hearth  ? 
Domestic  life,  so  pure  and  holy, 

Is  but  heaven  brought  down  to  earth. 


LIATES  TO  MARY". 
for  a 


BETTER  we  ne'er  had  met,  Mary, 

Than  parted  thus  to  be  ; 
My  cheeks  then  ne'er  were  wet,  Mary, 

With  sorrow's  tears  for  thee. 

Thou  wert  my  pride  and  joy,  Mary, 

Ere  passion  warmer  grew  ; 
When  but  a  very  boy,  Mary, 

My  hopes  were  fixed  on  you. 

The  vows  so  often  made,  Mary, 

In  whispers  soft  and  kind, 
When  looks  thy  love  betrayed,  Mary, 

Are  graven  on  my  mind. 

Yes  !  while  alone  you  sit,  Mary, 

And  thoughts  upon  me  cast, 
Across  thy  mind  may  flit,  Mary, 

Sweet  visions  of  the  past. 

7 


86  LINES  TO  MAEY. 

Those  golden  hours  of  bliss,  Mary, 

May  ne'er  again  be  found ; 
But  since  'tis  come  to  this,  Mary, 

I'll  not  inflict  a  wound. 

Though  wealth  thy  charms  may  win,  Mary, 

It  cannot  banish  pain ; 
The  peace  that  reigned  within,  Mary, 

You  may  not  know  again. 

Your  hand  you  may  bestow,  Mary, 

And  strong  emotions  curb, 
But  cannot  soothe  the  woe,  Mary, 

When  nestling  pangs  disturb. 

You  now  are  sad  in  speech,  Mary, 
And  cares  thy  smiles  displace ; 

While  tears  begin  to  bleach,  Mary, 
The  roses  on  your  face. 

Oh !  bitterly  you  find,  Mary, 

Though  friends  approve  your  part, 

That  love  alone  can  bind,  Mary, 
Affection's  changeless  heart. 


LINES  TO   MARY.  87 

Such  thoughts  you  may  not  breathe,  Mary, 

Yet  sighs  a  language  speak; 
A  current  rolls  beneath,  Mary, 

Which  your  young  heart  may  break. 

Through  foreign  climes  I'll  range,  Mary, 

And  may  not  see  you  more ; 
I'll  pleasures  seek  in  change,  Mary, 

On  some  far  distant  shore. 

Farewell !  Adieu  for  aye,  Mary, 

An  angel's  peace  be  thine  ; 
For  but  one  wish  I  pray,  Mary — 

In  sympathy  be  mine. 


LINES  TO  ELLA. 
for  a 


BLITHE  as  the  soaring  lark,  Ella, 
With  sunshine  on  our  way, 

We  launched  our  little  bark,  Ella, 
In  love's  enchanting  bay. 

The  spring-time  of  our  life,  Ella, 

Is  now  for  ever  gone, 
But  yet,  O  dearest  wife  !  Ella, 

Our  hearts  beat  still  as  one. 

Age  has  not  bleached  our  locks  as  yet, 
Nor  furrowed  deep  the  brow  ; 

We  leave  the  Past  with  no  regret, 
With  us  'tis  Summer  now. 

The  buds  and  blossoms  of  our  love, 

So  rosy,  young  and  fair, 
Preserved  to  us  by  Him  above, 

Our  blended  features  wear.' 


LINES  TO   ELLA.  89 

Domestic  joys  with  years  increase, 

And  weary  hours  beguile ; 
Contentment  and  connubial  Peace 

For  ever  sweetly  smile. 

Our  offspring  twine  around  the  heart 

As  vines  cling  to  the  tree : 
O  God  !  may  they  when  we  depart 

A  Parent  find  in  thee. 


ISRAEL    RESTORED. 

• 
LONG-  thy  harps   have  been  mute  and  thy  war-banner 

furled, 

Hoary  nation  in  fragments  spread  over  the  world ! 
But  light  dawns  on  thy  darkness,  hope  gleams  on  thy  path, 
And  sweet  mercy  is  mixed  in  the  cup  of  God's  wrath. 

Thou  hast  oft  been,  O  Israel,  in  sunshine  and  shade, 
Since  the  Lord  with  thy  Chief  the  new  Covenant  made  ; 
While  the  summits  of  Sinai  were  wrapped  in  a  cloud, 
And  its  bleak  shattered  sides  echoed  thunders  aloud. 

For  thy  crimes  red  as  scarlet  the  Prophets  of  old, 
Deeply  read  in  the  future,  thine  exile  foretold ; 
And  all  changes  the  God  of  thy  fathers  hath  willed 
Are  recorded  on  high,  and  will  yet  be  fulfilled. 

Wolves  have  entered  the  fold,  breathing  rapine  and  blood ; 
Crime  exulting  hath  rode  on  fierce  slaughter's  red  flood ; 
And,  as  if  to  work  out  some  inscrutable  plan, 
Against  thee  were  let  loose  the  worst  passions  of  man, 


ISEAEL  RESTORED.  91 

All  thy  cities,  0  Judah,  are  desolate  now, 
And  no  diadem  jewelled  shines  bright  on  thy  brow ; 
Zion,  widowed  and  sad,  bows  her  head  in  despair, 
For  the  Infidel's  banner  in  triumph  floats  there. 

Since  the  eagles  of  war  scattered  horrors  aronnd, 
And  the  walls  of  thy  Salem  were  razed  to  the  ground, 
Over  thee  and  thy  children  dark  ages  have  rolled, 
But  the  depths  of  thy  grief  and  thy  wrongs  are  untold. 

Thou  hast  silently  worn  the  vile  badge  of  disgrace 
Which  proud  custom  hath  fixed  on  thy  name  and  thy 

race, 

And  as  pilgrims  all  homeless  have  wandered  abroad, 
Unenfranchised  by  man  and  abandoned  by  God. 

What   though   empires   have   fallen   and   states  passed 

away, 

And  the  earth  groans  with  ruins,  the  spoils  of  decay, 
Though  bent  to  the  dust  'neath  the  sceptre  of  terror, 
Like  truth  thou  hast  lived  through  the  midnight  of  error. 

Living  proofs  of  predictions!  for  thousands  of  years 
Distant  climes  have  been  dewed  with  thy  blood  and  thy 
tears : 


92  ISRAEL  RESTOEED. 

But  the  home  of  thy  fathers,  the  land  of  Canaan, 
Shall  resound  with  the  music  of  Israel  again. 

Turbaned  tyranny  reels,  and  the  Koran  is  riven, 
As  Truth  onward  speeds  with  the  Gospel  of  Heaven ; 
Systems  totter  and  heave,  the  Cross  heralds  thy  way, 
And  the  Crescent  already  grows  pale  with  dismay. 

Yes !  'tis  written  with  lightning,  and  heard  in  the  gale, 
That  Jehovah  shall  triumph  and  Israel  prevail ; 
That  oppression,  all  ghastly  with  fire  and  with  sword, 
Must  expire  at  the  withering  frown  of  the  Lord. 

Heaven  thunders  it  forth,  and  Earth  loudly  replies, 
That  Jerusalem  yet  from  her  ashes  will  rise ; 
Moslem  hordes  from  her  bosom  she  proudly  will^spurn, 
But  enraptured,  0  Israel,  will  hail  thy  return. 

Hark !  the  strains  which  the  Kemnant  in  ecstasy  sing 
Make  the  mountain-girt  vales  of  Assyria  ring ; 
While  the  hills  of  Libanus  take  up  the  glad  song, 
And  Judea  the  sounds  of  salvation  prolong. 


ISRAEL   RESTOEED.  93 

Lo !  the  tribes  the  grand  plan  of  Redemption  proclaim, 
In  Messiah  believe,  and  rejoice  in  his  name  ; 
And  emboldened  by  soul-cheering  smiles  from  above, 
Like  apostles  go  forth  on  the  mission  of  Love. 

Blow  the  trumpet  aloud,  for  the  glad  day  is  near 

"When  thou  wilt  in  Decision's  deep  valley  appear ; 

"Now  light  dawns  on  thy  darkness,  hope  gleams  on  thy 

path, 
And  sweet  Mercy  is  mixed  in  the  cup  of  God's  wrath. 


THE    STARS. 

SEE  1  the  fair  sparkling  Stars,  like  diamonds  bright, 
Gem  the  glorious  robe  of  silent  night; 
Dazzling  worlds,  that  in  undimmed  lustre  shine, 
As  if  fresh  from  their  Maker's  hand  divine ; 
Glowing  realms,  that  mock  the  Atheist's  name, 
Who  for  Chance  their  celestial  birth  would  claim ; 
Brilliant  gems  of  Creation's  changeless  crown, 
To  which  the  Pagan  world  knelt  blindly  down. 
O  ye  jewels  bright  of  Jehovah's  throne, 
That  in  matchless,  glittering  glory  shone, 
That  were  mirrored  far  in  the  depths  below, 
"Where  the  tides  ever  restless  ebb  and  flow, 
Before  Sin  and  Death  in  their  wild  career 
Blasted  all  that  was  fair  and  lovely  here, 
And  ere  Science  young  with  inquiring  eye 
Scanned  the  rolling  spheres  of  yonder  sky, 
Ye  were  whirling  round  in  your  orbits  grand, 
Which  by  nature's  God  were  framed  and  planned. 
Ye  glorious  orbs  I  we  may  note  the  time 
That  ye  take  to  travel  your  rounds  sublime ; 


THE  STAES.  95 

May  compute  your  distance  from  the  sun, 
And  boast  of  celestial  triumphs  won. 
Science  yet  may  scale  your  starry  height, 
And  on  learning  pour  a  flood  of  light ; 
But  there  are  things  above  she  may  not  scan, 
There  are  limits  set  to  the  powers  of  man. 
There 's  a  veil  that  hides  from  all  searching  ken 
Worlds  yet  unrevealed  to  the  sons  of  men. 
Yet  in  fancy's  flight  may  the  human  mind 
In  Creation's  space  new  splendors  find, 
And  through  powerful  convex  lenses  gaze 
On  the  regions  where  far  systems  blaze ; 
Where  the  suns  and  revolving  planets  glow 
Yet  unseen  from  this  mundane  sphere  below ; 
Where  millions  of  worlds  that  we  cannot  sum 
Strike  wildered  Eeason  amazed  and  dumb  ; 
And  where  Science  with  all  her  boasted  lore 
Kneels  at  the  threshold  of  Wisdom's  door. 

What  know  we  of  Comets,  that  volant  race 
That  sweep  through  the  desert  fields  of  space? 
They  fearfully  come,  and  they  flaming  go, 
And  the  paths  of  some  we  may  never  know. 
We  see  them  anon  in  our  starry  sky, 
With  their  flashing  trains,  like  lightning  fly  : 


96  THE  STAKS. 

By  the  mystic  power  of  the  Great  First  Cause, 
They  are  subject  all  to  unerring  laws. 

Can  it  be  that  those  golden  lamps  on  high, 

That  radiant  spangle  the  azure  sky, 

Were  but  hung  to  impart  a  feeble  light 

That  mere  clouds  may  blot  from  human  sight  ? 

Or  that  Man  might  in  wondrous  rapture  stare 

On  the  bright  nocturnal  glories  there, 

Till  Mind,  like  the  mariner  tempest-tost, 

Is  on  a  rolling  sea  of  wonders  lost  ? 

For  ever  away  with  such  thoughts  profane ! 

The  Creator  ne'er  made  worlds  in  vain. 

Though  Philosophy  may  not  understand, 

Yet  in  all  we  see  there 's  a  purpose  grand ; 

And  throughout  his  countless,  vast  domains 

A  pervading  God-like  order  reigns. 

And  oh !  who  can  prove,  or  who  gainsay, 

Whether  mortals  there  hold  social  sway  ? 

Stars  may  peopled  be,  and,  for  aught  we  know, 

As  with  us,  the  Seasons  come  and  go ; 

And  fair  flowers  may  bloom,  and  verdure  spring, 

And  birds  celestial  strains  may  sing ; 

Mountains  may  be  capped  with  eternal  snow, 

And  volcanoes  through  all  ages  glow  ; 


THE  STARS.  97 

Mighty  rivers  on  to  oceans  roll, 
That  Nature's  glorious  laws  control. 
As  e'en  a  drop  of  water  teems  with  life, 
So,  with  nameless  forms  of  existence  rife, 
There  may  dwell  sweet  Peace  and  busy  Strife. 

Oh !  ye  just  and  good,  when  ye  leave  this  sphere 
With  an  upright  heart  and  a  faith  sincere, 
Yon  richly  jewelled  sapphire  dome 
Is  the  path  to  your  eternal  home. 


THE  DEPARTED. 

tfje  Deatj)  of  &mtfe  $.  S&omas,  a  Wear  anlr  Dear 
of  tfje 


YOUNG  bud  of  fair  promise, 

Hope's  beautiful  child  I 
How  dreary  the  home  is 

Where  lately  thou  smiled. 
The  fireside  of  gladness, 

And  mirth  in  its  glee, 
Are  wrapt  in  deep  sadness, 

And  weeping  for  thee. 

Afflictions  are  sent  us, 

Patience  must  bear  them  ; 
And  blessings  are  lent  us 

Freely  to  share  them. 
In  faith  thou  may'st  falter, 

0  frail,  erring  man  ! 
But  thou  canst  not  alter 

God's  mystical  plan. 


THE   DEPARTED.  99 

The  fond  hopes  we  cherish, 

The  things  we  most  prize, 
Seem  first  doomed  to  perish 

And  pass  from  our  eyes. 
Ties  strongest  and  nearest, 

Entwined  round  the  heart, 
Loves  warmest  and  dearest, 

For  ever  must  part. 

The  widow  lone-hearted, 

Desolate  mother  1 
She  weeps  the  departed, 

But  feels  like  no  other. 
Sad  mourning  believer ! 

Her  spirit  is  gone ; 
Yet  bless  the  Life-giver, 

He  takes  but  his  own. 

But  why  all  this  weeping 

A  form  without  breath  ? 
'Tis  Loveliness  sleeping 

The  calm  sleep  of  death. 
Since  the  law  is  fulfilled, 

And  sin  is  forgiven, 
Let  her  go  undefiled, 

Young  heiress  of  heaven. 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  WORLD. 

WHILE  gliding  down  life's  rapid  river, 
Eddies  strong  impede  our  course, 

And  baffling  oft  our  best  endeavor, 
Whelm  us  with  terrific  force. 

Here  passions  swell,  and  flashing  bubbles 
Burst  their  empty  forms  in  air ; 

And  on  this  busy  stream  of  troubles 
Float  the  barks  of  Hope  and  Care. 

Here  friends  with  honeyed  accents  cluster, 
Thick  as  bees  within  their  hive, 

And  at  the  social  banquet  muster, 

Court  and  fawn,  while  all  things  thrive. 

But  let  the  sun  that  shines  in  gladness 
Sink  in  gloom  ahove  our  head, 

And  want  wear  looks  and  weeds  of  sadness, 
Where  has  boasted  Friendship  fled  ? 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  WOELD.  101 

As  unsubstantial  shadows  follow 

Moving  forms  in  sunny  days, 
Side  by  side,  smooth  flatterers  hollow 

Wait  on  knaves  and  sing  their  praise. 

Men  for  different  spheres  are  fitted, 

Some  to  serve  and  some  to  rule, 
And  Merit  oft  may  be  outwitted, 

Worth,  a  lackey,  serve  a  fool. 

Ambition's  slaves  ape  ways  of  fashion, 

Gild  the  halls  of  empty  Pride ; 
Or  gaily  with  the  spurs  of  Passion 

Proudly  on  to  ruin  ride. 

Ignoble  minds  presume  that  pleasures 

Unalloyed  with  wealth  are  found, 
And,  dazzled  by  earth's  glittering  treasures, 

Thirst  for  gold  the  world  around. 

Who  can  depend  on  Fortune  fickle, 

Or  avert  the  fatal  blow 
When  Death  comes  with  unsparing  sickle, 

All  our  cherished  hopes  to  mow  ? 


102  A  GLIMPSE  OF  fHE  WOKLD. 

There  are  no  fragrant  paths  of  roses 
Free  from  pricking  thorns  of  care, 

And  oft  the  grave  -untimely  closes 
Over  Youth  and  Beauty  fair. 

From  the  palace  to  the  cottage, 

From  the  hovel  to  the  throne, 
From  the  cradle  to  life's  dotage, 

Where  are  Sorrow's  tears  unknown  ? 

When  the  heart  is  sad  and  dreary, 
And  the  Present  seems  to  frown, 

Oh !  how  many,  of  life  weary, 
Wish  to  lay  its  burden  down ! 

What  though  the  mind  be  stored  with  learning, 
And  life's  prospect  fair  to  see, 

We  ever  feel  our  spirit  yearning, 
Like  some  caged  bird,  to  be  free. 

The  gaudy  phantoms  of  the  Present, 

That  we  covet  so,  and  chase, 
Are  like  the  rainbow  evanescent, 

Leaving  no  enduring  trace. 


A   GLIMPSE   OP  THE   WORLD.  103 

So  the  world  goes  on  revolving 

In  its  orbit,  as  of  yore, 
While  creeds  and  fetters  are  dissolving 

Upon  every  tyrant  shore. 

Progression's  god-like  spirit  ranges 
Through  all  systems,  young  and  old, 

That  keenly  feel  approaching  changes, 
Yet  unwritten  and  untold. 


THE  SLAVES  OF  AMBITION 

THE  lofty  peaks  that  cleave  the  sky 

The  eagle  bold  may  wing  to ; 
But  reptiles  mean  can  crawl  as  high 

When  they  have  aught  to  cling  to. 
So  'tis  with  man :  the  towering  mind, 

Plumed  with  wisdom's  precious  lore, 
Will  leave  the  vulgar  crowd  behind, 

And  proudly  heavenward  soar. 

Ambition's  creatures  creeping  rise, 

Up  to  power  may  slowly  climb, 
Intent  upon  the  golden  prize 

Placed  on  glory's  height  sublime. 
Designing  knaves  and  hireling  tools 

Conquests  base  may  oft  achieve, 
And  spider-like  catch  brainless  fools 

In  the  filmy  nets  they  weave. 

0  slaves  of  narrow,  party  creeds, 
Who  your  hopes  in  error  ground, 


THE  SLAVES  OF  AMBITION.  105 

Ye  shout  for  freedom  while  she  bleeds 

From  your  own  assassin  wound. 
Ye  blindly  men  for  measures  take, 

Self  for  love  of  country  show  ; 
And  laws  of  truth  and  justice  break 

Whence  the  streams  of  blessings  flow. 

As  rocks  the  ocean's  rage  defy, 

Mock  the  force  of  rabid  waves, 
So,  firmly  on  yourselves  rely, 

Spurn  the  iron  yoke  of  slaves. 
Be  men  !  and  bear  your  head  erect ! 

Never  fear  oppression's  frown  ; 
God  will  freedom's  cause  protect, 

And  success  her  struggles  crown. 


THE    COQUETTE. 

I'VE  been  such  a  fool  all  the  days  of  my  life, 
I  never  can  be  any  decent  man's  wife  ; 
Folk  said  I  was  pretty,  but  heartless  and  cold, 
And  now  the  glass  tells  me  that  I'm  looking  old. 

The  beaux  that  in  rapture  would  kneel  at  my  feet, 
Pretend  not  to  know  me  when  seen  on  the  street ; 
Old  fogies  that  loved  me,  and  boast  of  their  purse, 
Ne'er  think  of  my  name  but  they  mutter  a  curse. 

In  dimples,  that  once  were  so  rosy  and  fair, 
Sly  Cupid  would  lurk  with  his  witching  art  there  ; 
His  bow  he  would  pull,  off  his  arrows  would  flee, 
That  soon  brought  some  heart- wounded  lovers  to  me 

When  asked  if  I'd  wed  them,  I  laughed,  and  said  Yes, 
And  sealed  the  fond  pledge  with  a  good  hearty  kiss  ; 
They  nightly  would  come,  and  were  slow  to  depart, 
And  thought  they  had  won  both  my  hand  and  my  heart, 


THE  COQUETTE.  107 

/was  so  haughty  they  could  not  subdue  me, 
And  they  were  so  blind  they  could  not  see  through  me. 
They  thought  I  was  artless  and  free  from  all  guile : 
Poor  dupes  I  they  were  pleased  with  a  glance  and  a  smile. 

Great  havoc  I've  made  in  the  heart-breaking  line, 
But  none  have  succeeded  in  yet  breaking  mine  : 
1  suppose  'tis  so  hardened,  or  so  very  small, 
I  wonder  sometimes  if  I've  got  one  at  all. 

When  combing  my  long  raven  tresses  to-day, 

0  horror !  I  found  they  are  changing  to  gray ; 
And  my  wild  flashing  eyes,  where  latent  power  lies, 
Are  circled  with  wrinkles  art  cannot  disguise. 

Oh,  had  I  but  dreamed  that  my  charms  soon  would  fade, 

1  ne'er  would  have  been  such  a  wretched  old  maid. 
The  star  of  my  beauty  for  ever  is  set, 

And  what  am  I  now  but  a  withered  coquette  ? 

Though  haggard  my  cheeks  and  deep  furrowed  my  brow, 

I'll  marry  no  bachelor  dotard,  I  vow ; 

And  how  can  I  be  any  man's  second  wife, 

With  ready-made  children  to  taunt  me  through  life  ? 


108  THE  COQUETTE. 

The  doctor  so  smirking,  so  proud,  and  so  trim, 
Had  he  ingots  of  gold  I  ne'er  could  wed  him  : 
He  looks  for  perfection,  and  is  so  precise, 
An  angel  above  would  have  faults  in  his  eyes. 

The  lawyer,  that  fop  too,  so  starched  and  so  staid, 
I'd  rather  than  have  him  remain  an  old  maid  : 
He  boasts  of  high  breeding,  and  feels  mighty  big ; 
The  fool,  he's  bald-headed,  and  wears  a  brown  wig ! 

And  there  is  the  broker,  that  overgrown  calf, 
Who  makes  the  room  ring  with  his  loud  empty  laugh 
To  please  such  a  fellow  I  ne'er  could  take  pains ; 
No  woman  can  e'er  love  a  man  without  brains. 

And  there  is  the  merchant,  with  rich  jewelled  rings, 
lie  struts  and  he  dances,  he  plays  and  he  sings : 
With  some  folk  he  may  for  a  gentleman  pass, 
I  never  could  wed  such  a  swaggering  ass. 

The  minister  body,  that  hater  of  sin, 

Though  dwarfish  in  stature  and  so  very  thin, 

He  says  if  I  wed  him  he'll  do  what  he  can, 

But  Lord  !  I  want  something  that  looks  like  a  man. 


THE   COQUETTE.  109 

I  hate  all  the  dealers  in  two-penny  wares, 

Who  come  with  their  bowing  and  dancing-school  airs; 

And  opera-singers  I  never  could  bear, 

Whose  faces,  like  monkey's,  are  covered  with  hair. 

The  mean  album  rhymer  I  truly  despise, 

Whose  themes  are  for  ever  red  lips  and  bright  eyes ; 

I  look  with  disgust  on  the  parlor  buffoon, 

Whose  head,  like  the  tide,  can  be  swayed  by  the  moon. 

The  would-be  wise  critic  in  music  and  lore, 
I  ever  have  deemed  him  a  terrible  bore : 
Than  wed  one  so  wordy,  conceited,  and  proud, 
I'd  rather  at  once  be  wrapt  up  in  my  shroud. 

Let  old  lovers  sneer,  and  vain  braggarts  deride, 
Who  never  succeeded  in  taming  my  pride ; 
I've  played  well  the  part  of  the  flirt  and  the  jilt, 
And  still  dream  of  conquests  and  castles  air-built. 

I  know  'tis  all  folly,  and  why  should  I  fret? 
One  chance,  though  a  poor  one,  is  left  to  me  yet ; 
It  may  be  a  step  that  through  life  I  may  rue, 
But  what  can  a  wrinkled  old  maid  like  me  do  ? 
9 


THE    COQUETTE. 


The  man  who  still  loves  me  with  heart  and  with  soul 
Is  true  as  the  needle  that  points  to  the  pole  ; 
No  stories  of  slander  he  e'er  would  believe, 
Who  thinks  me  the  fairest  descendant  of  Eve. 

Whiles  brightened  with  hopes,  and  whiles  darkened  with 

fears, 

He  has  kept  at  his  suit  for  some  twenty-odd  years. 
With  rapture,  at  last,  he  will  bear  off  his  prize; 
And  bask  to  his  end  in  the  light  of  my  eyes. 

The  next  time  he  calls,  o'er  his  feelings  I'll  steal, 
And  feign  what  for  no  man  I  ever  could  feel  ; 
I'll  witchingly  coax  him,  and  while  his  love  warms, 
My  mind  is  made  up  to  rush  into  his  arms. 


THE    WORLD    OF    FASHION. 

YE  flaunting  dames  who  proudly  follow 
Gay  Fashion's  life,  so  false  and  hollow, 
Lay  sex  aside,  on  the  breeches  draw, 
And  to  hen-pecked  man  lay  down  the  law. 

What  are  morals  in  this  wondrous  age, 
That  would  dare  with  Fashion  war  to  wage  ? 
Teach  your  daughters  fair  to  fancy  men 
"Who  are  classed  among  the  upper  ten. 

Nature's  laws  are  wrong,  as  ye  may  see, 
And  by  Fashion  they  should  righted  be ; 
Wives  of  pride  and  sense  can  clearly  prove 
None  but  silly  fools  in  blindness  love. 

As  your  precepts  and  example  shew, 
'Tis  a  vulgar  thing  to. spin  and  sew ; 
None  but  low-bred  "trash  and  common  dirt" 
Ever  mend  auld  breefo  or  make  a  shirt. 


112  THE  WORLD  OF  FASHION. 

Though  your  mothers  at  the  wash-tub  stood, 
Fortune's  favors  soon  ennoble  blood, 
And  beggars  sans  a  decent  shift 
From  a  shanty  to  a  palace  lift. 

Fashion  builds  her  churches,  has  her  priests, 
Who  will  dance  attendance  at  her  feasts ; 
While  the  poor  from  cushioned  pews  are  driven, 
To  seek  elsewhere  a  road  to  Heaven. 

If  ye  wish  esteem,  still  hold  in  scorn 
That  aspiring  class  ignobly  born  ; 
While  they  meanly  ape,  and  fume,  and  rail, 
Oh,  ye  heads  of  Fashion,  cut  the  tail. 

And  to  make  your  daughters  empty  fools, 
Send  them  off  to  Fashion's  boarding-schools  : 
They  will  soon  forget  their  mother  tongue, 
And  the  mother  too  from  whom  they  sprung. 

With  dresses  made  in  Parisian  ton, 
Ye  may  find  them  at  the  Springs  anon, 
With  their  painted  cheeks  couleur  du  rose, 
Coquetting  round  with  their  brainless  beaux. 


THE  WOELD  OF  FASHION.  118 

To  be  noted  they  must  cut  a  dash 
With  some  Count  who  wears  a  big  moustache ; 
Who  sees  each  time  he  looks  in  the  glass 
The  counterpart  of  a  perfect  ass. 

They  may  idols  be  in  gay  saloons, 

Flirt  with  fops  who  look  like  starched  baboons ; 

Join  the  giddy  waltz  or  masquerade, 

Where  silly  heads  play  a  heartless  trade. 

Soon  home  they  come  with  their  noddles  turned, 
Talk  of  splendid  offers  proudly  spurned : 
'Tis  the  boast  of  fools,  and  of  not  a  few 
Versed  in  morals  taught  by  Eugene  Sue. 

They'll  order  round  with  a  haughty  air, 
And  nought  but  silks  and  satins  wear ; 
With  their  tricks  of  art  and  cunning  wiles, 
They  blockheads  catch  in  a  net  of  smiles. 

A  class  there  is  who  with  wit  evince 
A  warm  regard  for  some  merchant  prince, 
Who  has  raised  himself  from  tapes  and  thread 
Among  Fashion's  slaves  to  take  the  lead, 
fl* 


114  THE  WORLD  OF  FASHION, 

Can  ye  wonder,  thinking  parents,  then, 
That  your  thoughtless  girls  wed  roue  men, 
Since  Peace  and  Hope  and  Joy  are  sold 
For  bricks  and  mortar,  lands  and  gold  ? 

Ye  may  count  your  thousands  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  Common  Sense  drive  from  your  door ; 
But  Kemorse  will  force  an  entrance  there, 
And  cloud  the  brow  with  dark  despair. 

This  world  is  a  scene  of  ups  and  downs, 
It  smiles  to-day  and  to-morrow  frowns ; 
And  in  Fashion's  sphere,  where  move  upstarts, 
Empty  pockets  soon  make  bankrupt  hearts, 

Go !  hew  for  pearls  in  a  granite  rock, 
Or  seek  for  brains  in  a  barber's  block ; 
And  your  search  will  prove  no  less  in  vain, 
Than  to  find  true  worth  in  Fashion's  train. 


JEMY  LLWS  SONG  OF  SWEDEN. 

THRONED  on  fortune's  height  giddy,  to  pride  selfish  un 
known, 

My  poor  heart  throbbing  grateful,  Heaven's  blessings  doth 
own ; 

While  it  feels  for  the  needy,  icy  cold  may  it  be 

Ere  it  recreant  prove,  my  loved  Sweden,  to  thee ! 

Oft  in  my  slumbers  I  dream  of  my  kindred  and  home, 
And  with  rapturous  feeling  over  early  paths  roam ; 
But  ere  my  eyes  close  in  sleep  duty  bends  low  the  knee, 
To  implore  Heaven's  blessing,  0  my  Sweden,  on  thee  I 

Could  the  Songstress  but  scatter  joys  unmingled  around, 
Want  and  hearts  aching  should  ne'er  on  this  wide  earth 

be  found ; 

My  cup  of  bliss  would  be  full  the  poor  happy  to  see, 
I  should  never  more  wander,  my  own  Sweden,  from  thee ! 

When  my  heart's  mission  is  o'er,  and  life  nears  its  dark 

close, 

Oh  I  may  this  weary  head  rest  where  my  fathers  repose  : 
My  country !  tell  thou  the  poor,  who  may  yet  speak  of  me, 
The  gold  of  Success  could  not  lure  my  heart,  Sweden, 

from  thee ! 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WILLIAM  HENRY  HARBISON. 

BUT  yesterday — and  every  tongue, 
In  accents  sweet,  his  virtues  sung ; 
And  loud  the  azure  welkin  rung 

With  cordial  shouts  of  gladness. 
Let  harps  be  tuned  to  strains  of  woe, 
And  melting  music  softly  flow, 
For  death  has  laid  the  hero  low, 

And  wrapt  the  land  in  sadness. 

But  yesterday — in  happy  mood 
His  warm  heart  beat  with  gratitude, 
And  statesman-like  'mid  thousands  stood, 

And  graced  the  scene  sublimely. 
Fame,  trumpet-tongued,  proclaims  his  worth, 
And  West,  and  East,  and  South,  and  North, 
In  weeds  of  grief,  come  pensive  forth, 

To  weep  his  loss  untimely. 

See !  Honor,  Yalor,  Worth  appear, 
And  bend  with  Freedom  o'er  his  bier, 
To  shed  the  sympathizing  tear — 
His  firmest  friends  in  danger ! 


LINES   ON  THE   DEATH   OF   W.   H.   HARRISON.        117 

Stand  back,  Ambition !  come  not  thou, 
With  crimsoned  laurel  round  thy  brow, 
A  haughty  mourner  low  to  bow ; 
Thou  wert  to  him  a  stranger. 

Ye  martial  chieftains !  sadly  come, 
With  waving  plumes  and  muffled  drum, 
For  war-tried  soldiers  proudly  sum 

His  deeds  renowned  in  story. 
Let  Beauty  come !  and  Peace  attend, 
To  view  the  last  rites  of  a  friend  ; 
And  Youth  and  Age — behold  the  end, 

The  close  of  human  glory ! 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  GENERAL  ZACHARY  TAYLOR. 

MOURN  deeply,  ye  States,  lie  lias  left  us  for  ever; 
His  spirit  lias  fled  to  the  mighty  Life-giver; 
Be  wrapt  for  a  season  in  sorrow  and  tears, 
Your  hero  is  gone,  full  of  honors  and  years. 

While  earring  a  niche  of  renown  with  the  great, 
And  guiding  the  helm  of  the  grand  ship  of  State, 
The  angel  of  Death,  breathing  mercy  and  love, 
Brought  an  escort  of  seraphs  to  bear  him  above. 

A  halo  of  glory  encircles  the  name 
Of  him  who  expired  in  the  full  blaze  of  fame ; 
And  shrined  in  the  hearts  of  the  brave  and  the  free, 
It  only  can  perish,  0  Freedom!  with  thee. 

For  Freedom's  great  cause  and  the  land  he  adored, 
He  drew  from  its  scabbard  his  patriot  sword ; 
It  flashed  in  the  field  till  War's  thunders  did  cease, 
And  its  point  was  bedecked  with  the  Olive  of  Peace. 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF   GEN.  Z.   TAYLOR.        119 

Let  drums  be  black  muffled,  processions  move  slow, 
While  music  sends  forth  melting  dirges  of  woe ; 
Let  the  stars  and  the  stripes  "wrap  the  bier  of  the  Chief, 
And  sword-hilts  be  mounted  with  symbols  of  grief. 

Columbia!  let  flowers  of  his  native  land  bloom 
In  freshness  and  beauty  around  the  Chief's  tomb ; 
"While  pilgrims  repair,  even  generous  foes, 
To  bless  the  green  turf  where  his  ashes  repose. 


K  0  S  S  U  T  11  . 

GIVE  the  Magyar  a  welcome,  ye  sons  of  the  free, 
Since  his  life  is  devoted,  0  Freedom !  to  thee ; 
Bless  the  hero  that  comes  to  her  blood-purchased  soil, 
Where  no  king  can  enslave  and  no  tyrant  despoil. 

Give  the  Magyar  a  welcome  with  heart  and  with  hand, 
Where  each  man  is  a  monarch  who  lives  in  the  land ; 
Let  him  feel  that  the  flag  which  floats  o'er  him  in  pridej 
Wraps  the  brave  in  its  starry  folds  graceful  and  wide. 

Though  he  comes  not  in  pomp,  though  he  comes  not  in 

power, 

To  be  gazed  at  by  crowds  for  a  brief  passing  hour, 
There's  a  halo  around  him,  a  spell  in  his  name, 
That  may  yet  the  down-trodden  of  Europe  inflame. 

Though  he  hears  not  tKe  drum  and  the  bugle  of  war, 
Let  the  winds  waft  the  shouts  of  his  welcome  afar : 
They  may  wake  the  hushed  spirit  of  Freedom  again, 
And  her  songs  be  reechoed  on  mountain  and  plain. 


KOSSUTH.  121 

Hard  on  Hungary's  neck  rests  the  Autocrat's  heel ; 
Deep  in  Hungary's  heart  reeks  the  Austrian's  steel : 
Her  people  are  crushed  and  her  banners  are  riven — 
Oh !  why  sleep  the  bolts  of  the  vengeance  of  Heaven  ? 

Perjured  monarchs  may  prate,  and  their  minions  deride 
The  soul-strivings  of  millions  with  Eight  on  their  side ; 
They  may  stagger  with  blood,  like  the  drunkard  with 

wine, 
But  where,  where  shall  their  thrones  be  when  freemen 

combine  ? 

Sooner  waves  of  the  ocean  their  murmurs  may  cease, 
Or  the  tiger  in  mercy  his  victim  release, 
Than  the  despots  of  Europe  would  slacken  the  yoke 
Till  shivered  to  atoms  by  Freedom's  bold  stroke. 

Then,  oh !  welcome  brave  Kossuth,  ye  favored  of  earth, 
For  he  fought,  like  your  sires,  for  the  land  of  his  birth : 
May  the  flame  that  he  kindled  unquenchably  burn, 
Until  Honor  and  Glory  shall  hail  his  return. 


10 


THE     AUCTIONEER. 

WHO  lives  in  old  Gotham,  in  comfort  and  ease, 

And  knows  not  the  wit  and  wag,  Auctioneer  Keese  ? 

His  head,  like  his  person,  though  small,  yet  contains 

An  extra  supply  of  industrious  brains  ; 

And  bumps  like  mole-hills,  on  the  map  of  his  skull, 

Show  passions  the  reins  of  his  government  pull. 

His  eyes  from  beneath  sable  curtains  appear, 

His  ears  are  aye  ready  the  last  bid  to  hear ; 

His  nose  it  is  long,  and  his  cheeks  pale  and  thin, 

And  shaggy  black  wool  wildly  grows  on  his  chin. 

Strict  search  among  Christians  could  find  very  few 

That  so  much  resemble  keen  Shylock  the  Jew ; 

But  'tis  only  in  looks :  and  pray  do  not  start, 

He's  blessed  with  a  good  and  a  generous  heart ; 

And  would  that  the  Auctioneer  only  could  stray 

Where  Mammon's  bright  ingots  might  fall  in  his  way ; 

Then  friends,  by  the  score,  to  his  table  would  run 

Thick  as  insects  that  dance  in  the  rays  of  the  sun, 

And  feast  with  a  rapture  not  hitherto  felt, 

While  eagles,  like  snow-flakes,  would  rapidly  melt  • 

But  labor  does  not  always  fortunes  insure, 

And  fools  may  have  riches  and  wise  men  be  poor. 


THE   AUCTIONEER.  123 

Shrewd  Prince  of  the  Hammer !  his  tough  wiry  frame 

For  enduring  fatigue  puts  the  giants  to  shame  ; 

His  shoulders,  though  narrow,  let  no  one  deplore, 

Might  well  challenge  Atlas,  the  Titan  of  yore ; 

His  voice  is  not  thunder,  yet  rich,  deep,  and  clear, 

His  throat  never  rusts  for  the  want  of  good  cheer ; 

His  tongue  onward  wags,  oh!  the  queer  joking  rogue, 

While  tireless  he  wades  through  a  long  catalogue. 

In  humor  and  wit  there's  no  want  of  supply, 

For  thick  as  the  sparks  from  an  anvil  they  fly ; 

Deep  read  in  the  lore  of  Book  title-pages, 

He  well  knows  by  name  the  great  of  all  ages : 

All  authors,  from  Moses  and  Homer  of  old, 

Like  the  Phrygian  Midas,  he  turns  into  gold ; 

That  stupid  king  said,  whose  heart  was  so  hollow, 

Pan  could  sing  better  than  matchless  Apollo : 

An  insult  so  foul  the  god  could  not  let  pass, 

So  his  royal  head  decked  with  huge  ears  of  an  ass  ; 

'Tis  not  so  with  John,  for  a  whisper  and  nod 

Show  he's  got  the  eyes  and  the  ears  of  a  god ; 

And  though  strange,  'tis  not  the  less  true,  that  he's  blest 

With  gifts  that  the  heathen  king  never  possessed. 

While  at  his  droll  wit  and  his  humor  you  laugh, 

Lo !  sheep-skins  are  suddenly  changed  into  calf; 

And  leather,  well  dressed,  that  once  covered  some  ewes, 


124  THE   AUCTIONEER. 

He  turns  to  morocco  you  cannot  refuse. 

By  some  trick  uncommon  of  legerdemain, 

Quick,  cider  is  found  to  be  Heidsick  champagne  ; 

Ale  brewed  up  the  Hudson  by  some  pompous  botch, 

One  rap  of  his  hammer  will  turn  to  good  Scotch. 

'Tis  the  same  with  the  Arts :  If  pictures  you  buy, 

On  the  taste  of  the  connoisseur  seller  rely ; 

If  Kaphael  or  Kembrandt  you  may  not  well  like, 

He'll  sell  you  a  Titian,  perhaps  a  Yandyck ; 

Or,  should  you  prefer  it,  just  by  the  same  rule, 

A  Teniers  may  get  of  the  true  Flemish  school ; 

A  Correggio,  more  than  three  hundred  years  old, 

For  the  price  of  some  blockhead's  production  is  sold ; 

A  Gruido  and  Eubens,  of  beauty  and  grace, 

So  seldom  seen  now  in  an  auctioneer's  place — 

A  Murillo,  and  eke  a  true  Claude  Lorraine, 

Are  found  in  the  list  of  the  Great  Master  train  ; 

There  Salvator  Eosa's  grand  pictures  of  gloom, 

And  Hogarth  and  Wilkie,  all  share  the  same  doom. 

Should  you  wish  sheep  or  cattle — pray  do  not  sneer — 

You'll  instantly  get  an  undoubted  Landseer ; 

And  if  hogs  you  prefer,  that  look  like  living  swine, 

Keep  easy,  a  Morland  will  doubtless  be  thine ; 

Or  if  native  talent  you  may  deem  the  best, 

Bear  home  to  your  parlor  a  Benjamin  West. 


THE   AUCTIONEER.  125 

Should  you  wish  canvas  angels  taken  from  life, 
You  may  get  a  nice  batch  to  present  to  your  wife ; 
And  statues  from  Phidias  down  to  our  time, 
Or  frescoes  long  plundered  from  temples  sublime  ; 
Old  relics  of  saints,  vellum  missals  of  priests, 
Stuffed  birds  of  rare  plumage  and  beautiful  beasts — 
All  are  knocked  down  by  great  Auctioneer  Johnnie, 
So,  one  and  all,  purchase  sans  ceremonie. 


MY    BACHELOR    HEART. 

MY  dearest  Louise,  oh !  I  cannot  upbraid, 
Although  with  my  heart  you  have  sad  havoc  made : 
With  a  form  of  such  grace,  and  a  face  so  divine, 
I  fear,  my  dear  loved  one,  you  ne'er  will  be  mine. 

Like  the  raven,  your  hair  is  so  black  and  so  bright, 
And  your  eyes  are  as  dark  as  the  darkness  of  night, 
Yet  so  lovely  and  beaming,  they  quickly  impart 
A  love-speaking  thrill  to  my  bachelor  heart. 

And,  charming  Louise,  oh !  your  rich  coral  lips 
Are  sweet  as  the  honey  the  mountain-bee  sips ; 
Your  cheeks  are  more  fair  than  the  roses  that  bloom, 
And  shed  in  Love's  garden  their  matchless  perfume. 

Words  fail  to  express  all  the  joy  and  the  bliss 
I  feel  in  the  warmth  of  your  rapturous  kiss : 
When  first  your  fair  form  to  my  bosom  I  pressed, 
Love  kindled  its  flame  in  my  bachelor  breast. 


THE  ALBUM.  127 


Oh !  give  me  but  hope,  sweet  Louise,  and  I  vow 
I  shall  love  you  through  life  full  as  warmly  as  now : 
In  joys  and  in  sorrows,  in  weal  and  in  woe, 
Our  young  hearts  were  made  for  each  other,  I  know. 


THE     ALBUM. 

BOOK  of  intellectual  flowers, 
Beared  and  culled  in  leisure  hours, 
Be  thou  a  garden  chaste  and  meet, 
Thy  fruit  for  ever  pure  and  sweet, 
That  maidens  fair  and  hoary  sages 
May  gaze  with  rapture  on  thy  pages. 

Here  let  me  plant  a  daisy  then, 

The  meekest  flower  that  decks  the  glen, 

Which,  though  a  wild  and  common  weed, 

All  may  from  it  a  lesson  read : 

It  buds  and  blooms,  then  fades  away, 

By  "Winter  doomed  to  short  decay, 

Like  man,  to  live  some  brighter  day. 


THE   WELLS    0'  WEAEIE. 

WHEN  gloamin'  coost  its  shades  aroun, 

A  wee  afore  the  mirk  closed  in, 
Young  Jamie  wi'  his  Lucy  stray'd, 

Frae  out  Dun  Edin's  smeek  and  din. 
The  tow'ring  craigs  aboon  their  head 

Wi'  loud  souns  o'  the  pibroch  rung, 
An'  far  out-ower  the  bubbling  springs 

Their  shadows  big  were  dark'ning  flung. 
While  doun  upon  a  stane  they  sat, 

Their  hearts  beat  warm  an'  cheerie, 
An'  wi'  a  nameless  rapture  thrill'd, 

Amang  the  Wells  'o  Wearie. 

The  moon  threw  off  her  robe  o'  clouds, 
An'  shone  bricht  on  the  lanely  schaw ; 

She  like  a  gleamin'  falchion  hung, 
Ahint  Craigmillar's  toppling  wa'. 

The  starnies  shimmer'd  in  the  lift, 
As  thick  as  gowans  on  the  lea  ; 


THE   WELLS  O7  WEARIE.  129 

And  Nature  had  retired  to  rest, 

Wi'  a'  her  woodland  minstrelsy. 
Loof  lock'd  in  loof,  the  lovers  sat, — 

Tho'  lone  they  were  na  drearie ; 
A  warld  o'  bliss  they  drank  that  nicht 

Amang  the  "Wells  o'  Wearie. 

"  0  Lucy !  I  hae  lo'ed  ye  lang, 

As  nae  dout  ye  Ve  jelous'd  ere  noo ; 
My  passion  I  daur  ne'er  reveal, 

For  fear  a  frown  wad  shade  your  broo. 
An',  lassie,  gif  I  now  offend, 

Forgie  the  heart  that 's  wholly  thine, 
An'  let  me  still  remain  a  friend, 

Tho'  frae  my  soul  I  wish  thee  mine." 
The  tears  ran  doun  sweet  Lucy's  cheeks, 

She  gently  hung  her  modest  head ; 
A  saft  rebuke  escaped  her  lips, 

Frae  which  he  could  deep  meaning  read. 
"An'  is  it  so,"  he  then  replied, 
"  My  young  an'  guileless  dearie? 
This  nicht  we  '11  pledge  our  bridal  vows 

Amang  the  Wells  o'  Wearie." 


130 


"  Ye  hae  my  hand,  here  is  my  heart, 

Accept  them  baith,  my  marrow  true ; 
Tho'  gowd  tak'  wing  and  flee  awa, 

Your  Lucy  will  prove  leal  to  you. 
My  minnie  aft  wad  say  hersel' 

She  thocht  ye  was  ower  fond  o'  me : 
Yet  still  at  hame  ye  Ve  welcome  been, 

When  Lucy  ye  wad  come  to  see. 
Your  winsome  smiles  an'  bonnie  een 

Maist  tauld  me  a'  that  ye  Ve  confest ; 
Slee  kisses  ye  wad  steal  sometimes, 

An'  left  me  aye  to  guess  the  rest. 
Noo  by  yon  moon,  and  by  those  stars, 

That  licht  this  spot  sae  eerie, 
I  '11  keep  till  death  the  vows  I  Ve  made 

Amang  the  "Wells  o'  Wearie." 

Their  vows  were  kept,  an'  faithfu'  kept, 

As  a'  should  aye  keep  wi'  their  marrow ; 
And  wha  wad  dare  sic  bliss  disturb  ? 

Wha  wad  dare  love's  circle  narrow  ? 
Twice  twenty  years  hae  flown  sin  syne, 

To  join  their  forbears  o'  the  past, 
Still  Jamie  and  his  Lucy  live, 

Tho'  bent  wi'  years  an'  sinking  fast. 


131 


The  bairnies  o'  their  bairns  they  Ve  seen, 

Wi'  muckle  pride,  grow  up  to  men  ; 
Their  precepts  and  example  guid 

Shaw'd  sure  the  way  to  mak'  a  fen. 
The  unco  changes  o'  the  age 

May  weel  I  trow  confound  them ; 
While  the  curtain  o'  the  warld's  stage 

Seems  closing  fast  around  them. 
Sometimes  the  twa  will  toddle  out, 

Forfouchten  sair  may  dander, 
Out  ower  the  very  clover  fields 

Where  they  were  wont  to  wander. 
They  still  may  hear  the  black-bird's  notes, 

The  laverock's  sangs  sae  cheerie ; 
But  Time's  rude  hand  hath  swept  awa7 

The  bonnie  Wells  o'  Wearie. 


THE  WINTER  SQEG  OF  THE  SHEPHERD. 

FAR  out-ower  the  cauld  nrnir,  an'  laigh  in  a  howe, 
By  a  deep  sheugh  thro'  whilk  a  burnie  rins  down, 

Weel  shielded  frae  storms  by  a  heather-croun'd  knowe, 
My  sma'  biggin  stan's,  wi'  a  fale-dyke  aroun'. 

What  tho'  down  the  lum-heid  the  flauchters  fa'  in, 
An'  fizz  for  a  jiffie  whare  het  the  peats  lowe, 

Snaw  may  drift,  an'  winds  sough  aroun'  the  bleak  bin, 
The  plooman  o'  care  never  furrows  my  brow. 

The  trees  are  a'  leafless,  the  forests  a'  bare, 

The  flowers  are  a'  withered,  an'  Winter  is  here ; 

The  bonnie  wee  robins  my  hamely  meals  share, 
That  hap  to  my  shielin  an'  think-na  o'  fear. 

I  hae  peats  in  the  yard,  an'  hay  in  the  mow, 
An'  dizzens  o'  eggs  that  the  chuckies  hae  laid ; 

A  guid  thumpin'  kebbuck,  a'  soun'  yet  I  trow, 

Save  holes  that  some  wee  thievin'  mousie  has  made. 


THE   WINTER  SONG   OF  THE   SHEPHERD.  133 

The  sheep  in  the  fauld  fin'  eneucli  for  their  mou', 
Ne'er  toom  is  the  draff-pock  for  Bessie  the  yad ; 

My  ambry 's  weel  stockit,  my  meal-buist  is  fa'-— 
What  mair  needs  a  body  to  mak'  the  heart  glad  ? 

When  at  ora  times  thochtfu',  I'm  dowie  an'  wae 
Wi'  thinkin'  o'  things  that  I  canna  weel  name, 

A  wee  drap  o'  barley -bree  cheers  me  up  sae, 
I  feel  like  a  laird  in  my  strae-theekit  hame. 

There 's  Davoc  the  herd,  the  pluffy  bit  callant,  • 

Wi'  no  a  bane  doxie  about  him  ava, — 
He  '11  blaw  on  the  pipes,  or  croon  an  auld  ballant— 

The  lang  nichts  o'  winter  slip  blithely  awa. 

Foment  the  peat-nuik,  on  a  clean  bed  o'  strae, 
The  puir  thing  contented  as  onie  lies  doun ; 

He 's  up  in  the  mornin'  afore  screich  o'  day, 

The  image  o'  health — for  his  sleep  has  been  soun'. 

There  's  the  collie  forebye,  my  best  frien'  o'  frien's, 

There  's  nae  dog  that  wouffs  half  sae  tentie  as  lie ; 
Like  mysel',  for  nae  pampered  bicker  he  griens, 

An'  mornin'  and  nicht  taks  his  crowdie  wi'  me. 
11 


134     THE  WINTER  SONG  OF  THE  SHEPHERD. 

When  sheep  loup  the  dykes,  or  rin  aff  frae  the  lave, 
Quick  as  stoure  in  a  blast  he's  at  their  bit  fads ; 

When  cauldly  snaw-wreaths  wad  sune  gie  them  a  grave, 
To  spare  them  out-owre  the  moss-muirland  he  scuds. 

The  whaup  braves  the  storm,  the  peesweip  cries  its  name, 
An'  aff  to  its  covert  the  pairtraik  may  flee, — 

Sae,  true  to  my  nature,  I  naething  mair  claim 
Than  Providence  kindly  has  ettled  for  me. 

About  braws  am'  siller  I  ne'er  fash  my  thum' — 
They  breed  yed  an'  cares  that  I  downa  weel  ken  ; 

It 's  clear  as  the  peat-reik  that  gaes  up  the  lum,' — 
If  thriftie,  the  maist  o'  folk  aye  mak'  a  fen. 

The  Spring-time  will  come,  an'  warm  sunshine  will  bring, 
The  ice-lockit  burnies  flow  gushin'  an'  free ; 

The  heather  will  bloom,  an'  the  sweet  linties  sing, 
An'  aff  to  the  schaws  a'  the  robins  will  flee. 

Syne  Simmer  will  come,  clad  in  raiment  o'  green, 
The  ewes  an'  their  lammies  will  bleat  on  the  lea ; 

The  woods  choral  ring  whare  noo  Winter  is  seen, 
An'  gladness  smile  sweet  on  my  wee  hut  an'  me. 


AULD     DAYIE. 

AULD  Davie,  time-honert,  maist  doited  an'  donnert, 
Has  seen  the  cauld  winters  o'  fourscore  an'  twa ; 

He  danders  fu'  glegly  aboot  his  bit  mailin, 
An'  aye  gies  a  welcome  to  frien's  that  may  ca'. 

Gif  ye  tak'  but  a  turn  doon  the  brae  by  the  burn, 

Whare  schule  weans  gang  soukies  an'  sourocks  to  pu', 

Ye  '11  see  his  laigh  haddin  wi'  divots  weel  theikit, 
The  hame  o'  contentment  whare  wants  are  but  few. 

Davie  had  but  ae  wife  i'  the  course  o'  his  life, 
An'  wae  was  the  day  when  she  slippit  awa : 

His  ingle 's  been  drearie  sin'  he  lost  his  dearie, 
The  greatest  mishap  that  e'er  could  him  befa'. 

Till  o'  late  he  could  ploo,  but  he  canna  do't  noo, 

An'  Time,  the  hair  bleacher,  has  whitened  his  croun  ; 

On  the  rigs  at  the  hairst  he  was  mair  than  a  match 
For  ony  swack  birkie  the  hale  kintrie  roun'. 


136  ,  AULD   DAVIE. 

The  couthy  auld  body  may  tak'  his  drap  toddy, 
Has  a'  the  bit  comforts  his  sma'  needs  require ; 

His  rauchan  hamespun  keeps  him  cozie  an'  warm, 
An'  blithely  he  looks  by  his  peat-lowin'  fire. 

By  neebors  respeckit,  he'll  ne'er  dee  negleckit, 
Altho'  he  be  puir,  an'  his  back  at  the  wa'; 

Oh  1  rare  virtues  gild  the  last  days  o'  auld  Davie, 
Wha  aince  was  the  laird  o'  yon  proud-looking  ha'. 

It 's  but  seldom  he  speaks  o'  his  ain  youthfu'  freaks, 
For  auld  folk,  ye  ken,  their  fau'ts  ne'er  will  alloo ; 

Yet  his  heart  seems  to  warm,  an'  his  blear'd  e'en  look 

bricht, 
When  he  cracks  o'  the  days  when  he  first  gaed  to  woo. 

His  stories  auld  farrant,  that  age  will  aye  warrant, 

The  youngsters  will  mind  when  he 's  low  in  the  mools ; 

Ere  by  years  he  was  bent  a'  their  gutchers  he  kent — 
Wi'  maist  o'  them  Davie  had  gane  to  the  schules. 

The  carl 's  cantie  an'  crouse,  but  at  times  unco  douse, 
He  feels  himsel'  day  by  day  wearin'  awa : 

The  saut  tears  rin  doun  ower  his  time-furrowed  cheeks 
When  thochts  seem  to  rest  whare  his  hopes  are  hung  a'» 


AULD   DAVIE.  1ST 

In  the  gloamin'  o'  life,  far  awa  frae  a'  strife, 
May  we  bide  the  fate  that  awaits  us  a'  soon, 

As  the  sun  at  the  gowden-cloud  gates  o'  fche  West 
Seems  to  linger  awee  afore  it  gangs  doon  I 


II* 


AULD      SNUFFIE. 

HAE  ye  seen  on  the  road  the  pawkie  auld  tod, 
Slow  drivin*  his  nag  to  some  puir  body's  hame  ? 

The  wee  snuffie  foutre  looks  mair  like  a  souter 
Than  ane  wha  feels  big  wi'  M.D.  at  his  name. 

This  odd  thing  oj  nature,  sae  scrimpit  in  stature, 
Has  eidently  keepit  but  ae  end  in  view ; 

By  sair  wames  an3  stitches  he^s  made  a'  his  riches, 
An5  fast  frae  mere  naething  to  somebody  grew. 

This  wonderfir5  Buchan  has  got  a  big  sple&chan, 
In  which  he  rows  up  a'  his  doses  an*  bills  > 

There's  disease  in  the  touch  o5  its  auld  creeshie  po^ch, 
An'  death  is  aft  found  in  his  nostrums  and  pills, 

Wi'  pechan  an'  puffin',  an'  hostin'  an7  snuffin', 

Ye  '11  a'  ken  fu'  weel  when  he's  at  your  room  door? 

It 's  aye,  "  How  's  a1  wi'  ye?  I'm  sae  glad  to  see  ye ; 
Ye  ne'er  a1  your  days  lookit  better  afore." 


iikSiTY    J  ' 

^ 
AULD  SNUFFIE.  139 

Strong  hopes  he'll  hand  oot,  e'en  when  death  's  past  a' 
doot, 

An7  words  o*  sweet  comfort  the  body  will  gie ; 
Your  pulse  he  will  feel,  say  you're  doin'  fu'  weel, 

Altho7  gaspin'  your  last,  as  ilk  ane  may  see. 

Sae  wheedlin'  an7  fleichin'  lang  "blethers  aye  preachin', 
Fu7  loud  his  ain  trumpet  o'  skill  does  he  blaw  ; 

For  the  little  he  kens,  some  guid  deeds  mak'  amens, — 
Glib-gabbet  the  body 's  weel  likit  by  a'. 

The  rompin'  young  queans,  in  their  sweet  buddin'  teens, 
He  11  flatter  an7  ca7  them  a7  bonnie  an7  braw : 

When  they  get  to  be  wives,  a7  the  rest  o7  their  lives 
Nae  ither  man-howdie  will  they  hae  ava. 

An7  if  wi7  the  married  a  young  ane  7s  miscarried, 
Or  some  slicht  departure  frae  Nature's  great  laws, 

This  marvellous  body,  wha  rides  in  a  noddy, 
Will  wisdom  affect  to  assign  the  true  cause. 

But  if  wi7  some  hizzie  youVe  been  rather  busy, 
An7  dune  the  bit  job  that  ye  like  na  to  name, 

Let  that  thing  no  tease  ye,  but  feel  unco  easy, 
He  711  sune  fin7  a  cover  to  hide  aT  the  shame. 


140  AULD   SNUFFIE. 

An'  if  wi'  high  feedin'  ye  start*  need  o'  bleedin', 
Look  out  that  the  fountain  itsel'  rins  na  dry : 

So  first  mak'  your  will,  gif  ye  feel  rather  ill, 

You  '11  sune  be  laid  snug  where  your  forefathers  lie. 

He  '11  sigh  deep  an'  pray  wi'  young  widows,  they  say, 
When  loved  anes  are  cauld  in  their  lang  dreamless  rest ; 

He  '11  e'en  shed  a  tear  ower  a  dead  husband's  bier, 
An'  tell  greetin'  Men's  that  it 's  a'  for  the  best. 

Should  bairnies  be  bokin',  wi'  hoopin'-cough  chokin', 
An'  strangling  puir  wee  things  I  in  death's  iron  grip, 

This  medical  body,  this  shauchlin  auld  cuddy, 
Will  look  on  sae  doitit,  an'  see  them  aff  slip. 

This  grannie  in  breeches,  wha  blisters  an'  leeches, 

An'  calomel  doses  deals  oot  by  the  pun', 
Will  roar  in  a  chorus,  an'  drink  deoch  an1  doruis, 

An'  join  cantie  birkies  in  a'  kinds  o'  fun. 

Wi'  chiels  i'  the  clachan,  ye  '11  hear  him  loud  laughin' 
In  fine  simmer  nichts  as  the  gloamin'  sets  in, 

When  the  hairst  's  dune  at  kirns,  or  at  kirsnin  o'  bairns, 
He  's  sure  to  get  fou,  and  ne'er  thinks  it  a  sin. 


AULD  SNUFFIE.  141 

Wi'  the  sleek  parish  priest  he  will  fuddle  and  feast, 
Till  stech'd  his  bit  kyte  is  as  stent  as  a  drum : 

Aft  the  twa  cronies  grit  by  the  ingle-cheek  sit, 

An'  smoke  their  lang  pipes  wi'  their  heads  up  the  him. 

Noo,  ye  college-bred  louns,  wi'  Latin-pang'd  crouns, 
Wha  aiblins  the  Iliad  o'  Homer  may  read, 

Gif  ye  've  gumption  to  learn,  then  imprimis  discern, 
It 's  no  by  proud  airs  that  true  merits  succeed. 

Should  ye  bravely  engage  wi'  Death  warfare  to  wage, 

Ye  only  can  warsell  the  carl  for  a  time ; 
Ye  '11  gain  mair  by  coaxin'  than  even-doun  boxin', 

An'  gather  mair  blessings  than  poets  can  rhyme. 

But  should  fcelin's  be  sere,  an'  your  object  be  gear, 
Be  a'  body's  body  that  spiers  your  advice, 

Ne'er  saucie  or  huffie,  but  learn  frae  Auld  Snuffie 
To  wheedle,  an'  humbug,  and  get  your  ain  price. 


LUCY      LEE. 

SHE  's  budding  in  her  early  teens, 

Sae  young  and  sweetly  fair ; 
What  hand  wad  in  her  bosom  plant 

The  thorns  o'  grief  an'  care  ? 
The  mother  on  her  bairnie  doats 

That  smiles  upon  her  knee ; 
But  wi'  a  warmer  gush  o'  joy 

My  heart  lo'es  Lucy  Lee. 

There 's  love  in  a'  her  witching  smiles, 

There  's  rapture  in  her  een ; 
I  need  no  aid  o'  mystic  lore 

To  tell  me  what  they  mean. 
The  warld  and  a'  that  in  it  blooms 

Wad  be  a  waste  to  me, 
Did  frosts  untimely  nip  the  flower, 

My  winsome  Lucy  Lee. 


LIZZIE     LAIRD. 

THE  plague  on  Lizzie  Laird,  for  my  heid  has  ne'er  been 

soun' 

Since  her  twa  pawkie  een  gae  my  puir  heart  sic  a  stoun' ; 
Oh !  I  canna  see  her  face,  nor  pass  her  cottage  door, 
But  feelin's  strange  come  ower  me  I  never  felt  afore. 

The  little  coaxin'  smatchet !  I  wish  I  ne'er  had  seen 
The  roses  on  her  dimpled  cheeks,  the  glances  o'  her  een ; 
They  Ve  tint  my  very  heart,  an'  thrown  ower  me  sic  a 

spell, 
I  feel  like  ane  bewitched,  for  I  dinna  feel  mysel'. 

Gif  it 's  no  a  stoun'  o'  love,  what  else  then  can  it  be  ? 
An'  why  should  I  lo'e  Lizzie,  if  Lizzie  lo'es  na  me  ? 
The  wee  bit  teasin'  cuttie,  sae  winsome  an'  sae  kind, 
Why  should  I  allow  a  doot  to  harbor  in  my  mind  ? 

I  ken  her  heart  is  warm,  an'  I  ken  her  love  is  true ; 
It  shines  oot  clear  as  truth  in  her  bonnie  een  o'  blue : 
Through  the  journey  o'  my  life  how  happy  shall  I  be, 
When  wedded  to  my  hinnie,  O  Lizzie  Laird,  to  thee ! 


144  *'  LIZZIE  LAIRD. 

On  the  same  bink  at  the  schule  our  lessons  we  wad  learn ; 
I  then  was  but  a  callant,  an'  she  was  but  a  bairn : 
Cauld  will  be  this  heart  o'  mine  ere  I  forget  the  days 
When  youngsters  we  wad  wander  aboot  our  native  braes. 

I  think  I  see  the  laverock  up  frae  the  clover  spring ; 
I  think  I  hear  the  mavis  an'  linties  sweetly  sing ; 
When  my  Lizzie,  little  doo !  without  a  thocht  o'  sin, 
Cam'  skippin7  ower  the  green  fields  to  spier  if  I  was  in. 

Aft  in  youthfu'  rapture,  when  wild  flowers  were  in  bloom, 
The  wee  birds'  nests  we'd  herry  amang  the  gowden  broom ; 
Or  wad  aiblins  howk  for  bikes  in  laughin'  simmer  glee, 
An'  a'  the  treasures  steal  o'  the  honey  bumble  bee. 

Oh !  fu'  weel  I  mind  the  time,  awa  doun  by  the  schaws, 
Bare  fitted  we  wad  toddle  to  pu'  the  slaes  an'  haws ; 
An'  for  berries  aften  dander  oot-ower  the  mossy  fells, 
Where  hums  the  muirland  bee,  and  where  bloom  the 
heather-bells. 

Since  I  'm  nae  mair  a  callant,  nor  Lizzie  mair  a  bairn, 
I  fain  wad  oot  o'  Nature's  bulk  a  manly  lesson  learn : 
But  what  gars  me  be  sae  blate,  an'  feel  sae  muckle  shame 
To  ask  my  ain  sweet  Lizzie  to  change  her  maiden  name  ? 


LIZZIE  LAIRD.  145 

Noo,  what  to  say  to  Lizzie  I  coof-like  downa  ken ; 
I  Ve  got  a  snug  wee  cot,  wi'  a  cozie  but  an'  ben ; 
I  hae  but  little  haudin',  yet  what  I  hae  I  '11  share 
Wi'  my  bonnie  Lizzie  Laird,  the  fairest  o'  the  fair ! 


12 


JESSIE    PATERSON. 

WHEKE  green  hills  gently  rise,  and  the  Tweed  is  but  a 

burn, 

In  pleasing  dreams  of  fancy  my  footsteps  oft  return ; 
But  sic  happy  days  again  I  never  mair  may  see  ; 
Oh  I  then  Jessie  Paterson  was  a'  the  world  to  me. 

Ked  rowans  an'  blae-berries  in  simmer  we  wad  pu', 

An'  wi'  licht  hearts,  free  o'  care,  we  promised  to  be  true ; 

But  how  little  do  we  ken  what  we  're  born  to  dree  and 

tine, 
Then  a'  her  hopes  an'  prospects  were  bundled  up  wi'  mine. 

Oh !  Blink-Bonny's  buddin'  rose  was  fairest  o'  the  fair, 
An'  gracefully  in  ringlets  hung  down  her  gowden  hair ; 
"We  never  thocht  o'  changes  the  future  had  in  store, 
Or  the  pangs  that  it  wad  bring  we  dreamt-na  o'  before. 

When  her  wee  cozie  biggin,  weel  theekit  ower  wi'  straw, 
Wi'  Winter's  robe  was  happit,  afore  March  brocht  a  thaw ; 
Or  when  flowers  wad  bud  in  Spring,  and  braird  was  on 

the  lea, 
Oh !  then  Jessie  Paterson  was  a'  the  world  to  me. 


JESSIE   PATERSON.  147 

When  the  sun  in  mornin'  mist  was  blinkin'  redly  through, 
An'  the  gowan  an'  the  broom  were  bricht  wi7  pearly  dew, 
We  Ve  listen'd  to  the  lark  in  some  fleecy-nittin'  cloud, 
Where  sweet  the  little  warbler  sung  matin  lays  aloud. 

In  the  merry  harvest  time,  when  reapers  cam'  to  shear, 
We  thocht-na  in  our  damn,  our  partin'  was  so  near : 
I  think  I  see  her  now,  fu'  o'  rosy  rustic  glee ; 
Oh !  then  Jessie  Paterson  was  a'  the  world  to  me. 

But  why  should  I  be  dowie?  thae  days  are  gane  an'  past, 
An'  I  hae  learn'd  sin  syne  joys  unmingled  canna  last : 
Her  minnie  was-na  pleas'd,  an'  anger  steek'd  the  door; 
The  truth  then  stood  reveal'd  that  I  was  unco  poor. 

Bonnie  Jessie  Paterson !  sae  winsome  an'  sae  kind, 
Keep  a  wee  neuk  in  your  heart  for  honest  Tarn  the  hind : 
Though  Willie  ye  hae  wed,  an'  crossed  the  heavin'  sea, 
My  blessin'  on  ye  baith— lang  happy  may  ye  be ! 


MY    AIN    SWEET    JEAN. 

I  WAD  na  gi'e  my  ain  sweet  Jean 
For  a'  the  wives  I  yet  hae  seen ; 
It  7s  no  her  looks,  it 's  no  her  air, 
That  mak's  her  seem  to  me  sae  fair ; 
It 's  no  her  form  o'  modest  grace, 
Nor  is 't  her  winsome  bonnie  face ; 
But  'tis  her  heart,  sae  pure  and  free, 
That  mak's  her  a'  the  warld  to  me. 

Let  ithers  fret ;  'tis  mine  to  sing 
The  joys  that  riches  canna  bring ; 
Let  me  the  bliss  o'  rapture  share, 
Where  smiles  dispel  the  clouds  o'  care : 
Gie  me  my  cozie,  happy  hame, 
That  's  a'  the  gear  on  earth  I  claim ; 
My  wine  and  my  bairnies  three 
Are  mair  than  a'  the  warld  to  me ! 


MY  BOMIE  WEE   LIZZIE. 

MY  bonnie  wee  Lizzie, 

So  gentle  and  fair, 
There  7s  love  in  thy  glances, 

And  grace  in  thine  air. 
My  heart,  like  the  ivy 

That  twines  round  the  tree, 
Clings  fondly  with  rapture, 

My  Lizzie,  to  thee. 

Sweet  flower  of  rare  beauty, 

My  hope  and  my  pride  ! 
I  never  feel  happy 

Away  from  thy  side. 
May  no  clouds  of  sorrow 

E'er  shade  thy  young  brow, 
Nor  tears  bleach  the  roses 

That  sweetly  bloom  now. 
12* 


150  MY  BONNIE   WEE   LIZZIE. 

Thine  eyes  beam  so  brightly 

And  softly  on  me, 
No  wonder  that  nightly 

My  dreams  are  of  thee. 
I'll  go  to  the  altar 

With  joy  and  with  pride, 
And  there,  my  sweet  Lizzie, 

Confess  thee  my  bride. 


THE  YOUNG  BRIDE  0'  MAVIS-BAM  HA'. 

"  OH  !  whaur  hae  ye  been  to,  my  ain  bonnie  bairn, 
Oh !  whaur  hae  ye  been  to,  my  hinnie  ?" 

"  Doun  by  the  green  haugh,  a  new  lesson  to  learn, 
An'  pu'd  ye  these  wild  flowers,  my  minnie — 
An'  pu'd  ye  these  wild  flowers,  my  minnie." 

"  What  gars  ye  look  dowie,  what  gars  ye  no  speak  ; 

Oh !  what  dool  does  my  dear  lassie  dree  ? 
Ye  've  brocht'hame  a  blush  like  a  rose  on  your  cheek, 
An'  a  tear-drap  shines  bricht  in  your  ee — 
An'  a  tear-drap  shines  bricht  in  your  ee. 

"  Ye  've  aye  been  my  comfort :  it 's  lang  been  my  pride 

To  hear  a'  speak  weel  o'  my  Nannie  : 
'Twad  break  my  puir  heart  should  ye  skaith  e'er  betide, 
Or  something  come  ower  ye  no  cannie — 
Or  something  come  ower  ye  no  cannie." 


152  THE  YOUNG  BRIDE   O?   MAVIS-BANK  IIA\ 

"  I  '11  aye  be  your  comfort,  an'  aye  be  your  pride, 

Sae  think  na  o'  things  that 's  no  cannie ; 
The  blush  that  ye  see  is  the  blush  o'  the  bride, 
Yet  fear  na  ye  '11  no  tine  your  Nannie — 
Yet  fear  na  ye  '11  no  tine  your  Nannie. 

"  While  plettin'  green  rashes  aboon  the  mill-dam, 

Far  up  the  lift  sang  the  lark  cheerie ; 
Wi'  licht  heart  and  winsome  smiles  young  Willie  cam', 
An'  fondly  he  ca'd  me  his  dearie — 
An'  fondly  he  ca'd  me  his  dearie." 

"  Ye  puir  silly  thing,  ye  '11  this  day  sairly  rue ; 

The  laird's  son  wad  ne'er  enter  my  door : 
Oh  1  ae  thing  tak'  tent,  there 's  nae  guid  end  in  view 
When  the  rich  folk  get  grit  wi'  the  poor— 
When  the  rich  folk  get  grit  wi'  the  poor." 

"  Oh !  trust  your  leal  lassie,  this  day  I'll  ne'er  rue, 

The  laird's  son  will  sune  enter  your  door ; 
For  he 's  comin'  at  gloamin',  wi'  guid  ends  in  view, 
To  wed  me,  an'  mak'  rich  o7  the  poor — 
To  wed  me,  an'  mak'  rich  o'  the  poor. 


THE   YOUNG  BRIDE   O'   MAVIS-BANK   HA*.  153 

"  He  ca'd  me  his  dautie,  lie  ca'd  me  his  doo, 
Stole  a  bit  kiss  at  our  partin'  embrace : 
I  spak'  na  a  word,  for  my  heart  it  was  fu', 
But  my  answer  he  read  in  my  face — 
But  my  answer  he  read  in  my  face." 

"  I  raither  wad  live  in  my  cot  than  his  ha' — 

The  puir  cot,  lassie,  whaur  ye  was  born. 

Ye  canna  frae  care  flee,  although  ye  be  braw, 

For  the  bonnie  moss-rose  has  its  thorn — 

For  the  bonnie  moss-rose  has  its  thorn." 

The  gloamin'  sune  cam',  an'  wi  't  Willie  busked  fine, 
His  young  cottage-bride,  Nannie,  to  claim  : 

There 's  nae  face  that's  human  e'er  looked  mair  divine 
Than  it  did  when  she  took  his  proud  name — 
Than  it  did  when  she  took  his  proud  name. 

There  were  music  an'  mirth  in  Mavis-Bank  Ha', 

An'  ilka  ane  pledged  a  fu'  tassie 
To  the  bride  young  an'  bonnie,  the  fairest  o'  a', 

The  cottager  widow's  ae  lassie — 

The  cottager  widow's  ae  lassie. 


I   CANNA  LEAVE  MY  MINNIE. 

TAK'  back  the  ring,  dear  Jamie, 

The  ring  ye  gae  to  me, 
An'  a'  the  vows  ye  made  yestreen 

Beneath  the  "birken  tree. 
But  gie  me  back  my  heart  again, 

It 's  a'  I  hae  to  gie ; 
Sin'  ye  '11  no  wait  a  fittin'  time, 

Ye  canna  marry  me. 

I  promised  to  my  daddie, 

Afore  he  slipp'd  awa, 
I  ne'er  wad  leave  my  minnie, 

Whate'er  sud  her  befa'. 
I  '11  faithfu'  keep  my  promise, 

For  a'  that  ye  can  gie : 
Sae,  Jamie,  gif  ye  winna  wait, 

Ye  ne'er  can  marry  me. 


I  CANNA  LEAVE   MY  MINNIE.  155 

I  canna  leave  my  minnie, 

She 's  been  sae  kind  to  me 
Sin'  e'er  I  was  a  bairnie, 

A  wee  thing  on. her  knee. 
Nae  mair  she  '11  cairn  my  gowden  hair, 

Nor  busk  me  snod  an'  braw ; 
She  's  auld  an'  frail,  her  een  are  dim, 

An'  sune  will  close  on  a'. 

I  maun  na  leave  my  minnie, 

Her  journey  is  na  lang ; 
Her  heid  is  ben  din'  to  the  mools 

Whare  it  maun  shortly  gang. 
Were  I  an  heiress  o'  a  crown, 

I  'd  a'  its  honors  tine, 
To  watch  her  steps  o'  helpless  age, 

As  she  in  youth  watched  mine. 


DONALD    AND    LUCY. 

"  AWA  wi'  sic  havers,  blithe  Donald,  awa, 
An'  talk  na  to  me  o'  your  haudin  sae  braw ; 
For  what  gars  ye  think  o'  a  lassie  like  me, 
Wha  has  naething,  ye  ken,  but  a  leal  heart  to  gie  ? 
Ye  praise  the  red  roses  that  bloom  on  my  face, 
An'  tell  me  I  look  like  an  angel  o'  grace ; 
But  a  heart  that  is  pure  is  better  than  a', 
For  beauty 's  a  flower  that  sune  withers  awa." 

"  Come  geek  na  me,  Lucy,  ye  ken  unco  weel 
Nae  havers  I  tell  ye,  but  speak  as  I  feel ; 
I  care  na  for  tocher,  I  've  gat  rowth  o'  gear, 
What  mair  need  we  want  then,  sweet  Lucy,  my  dear  ? 
Oh  I  think  na  the  beauty  that  blooms  on  the  skin 
Could  e'er  blin'  my  een  to  the  jewel  within : 
So,  noo,  winsome  Lucy,  come,  come,  e'er  we  part, 
An'  say  that  ye  '11  gie  me  your  hand  an'  your  heart." 


DONALD   AND   LUCY.  157 

She  spak1  na  a  word,  but  looked  dowie  an7  wae ; 
Her  heart  it  was  fu',  she  had  naething  to  say : 
The  gallant  young  Donald,  a  clansman  o'  pride, 
Bore  aff  on  his  fleet  steed  his  beautiful  bride. 
The  saft  simmer  gloamin'  was  just  setting  in, 
An'  mantlin1  wi'  shadows  the  bleak  Highland  bin, 
When  Murray,  the  flower  o'  the  Clan  o'  that  name, 
Reached  safely  wi'  Lucy  his  braw  mountain  hame. 


THE  SCENES  THAT  HEYER  WEARIE. 

How  the  heart  to  the  Past  wi7  rapture  clings 
When  the  spirit  Memory  bears  nae  stings, 
But  ower  it  a  glorious  halo  flings, 

That  mak's  it  seem  sae  cheerie. 
There  rs  a  bonnie  wee  spot  ayont  the  sea 
That  7s  sweeter  than  a'  ither  spots  to  me, 
"Where  the  mornin'  o'  life  I  spent  sae  free, 

'Mang  scenes  that  never  wearie. 

There  the  Spring  first  comes  wir  its  leaves  and  buds ; 
There  the  cuckoo  is  heard  in  the  circlin'  wuds ; 
An7  far  up  in  the  lift  amang  the  cluds 

The  laverock  sings  sae  cheerie. 
The  swallow  its  wings  in  the  burnie  dips ; 
The  bee  frae  the  Thistle  its  honey  sips ; 
Where  sae  fondly  first  I  pried  the  lips 

0J  Jean,  my  bonnie  dearie. 


THE  SCENES  THAT  NEVER  WEARIE.  159 

Oh!  my  heart  yet  clings,  Craigieburn,  to  thee! 
Where  the  langest  day  was  aye  short  to  me ; 
An'  where  aften  I  still  in  fancy  flee 

To  scenes  that  never  wearie. 
I  dream  o'  the  trees  wi'  their  plumes  o'  green, 
An'  I  gaze  on  the  flowers  wi'  ravished  een, 
Where  first  I  met  wi'  my  bonnie  Jean, 

My  early,  only  dearie. 


SWEET  ISABEL,  MY  DEARIE  0. 

SING  ony  ye  warblers  o'  the  grove, 

Sing  on,  sae  sweet  and  eh  eerie  0 ; 
Ilk  note  I  hear  thee  chant  o'  love 

Keminds  me  o'  my  dearie  0. 
It  bears  me  back  to  bygone  days, 

That  ne'er  were  lang  nor  drearie  O, 
When  blithely  'mang  the  broomy  braes 

I  wandered  wi'  my  dearie  O. 
Love  was  our  youthfV,  endless  theme, 

While  hours  flew  by  sae  cheerie  0 ; 
And  still  she  lives  in  mem'ry's  dream, 

Sweet  Isabel,  my  dearie  0. 

Too  soon  dark  clouds  began  to  lower, 
That  made  a'  dull  and  eerie  O, 

And  death  nipt  virtue's  bonnie  flower, 
Fair  Isabel,  my  dearie  O. 

Time  from  my  mind  shall  ne'er  efface 
Those  gowden  days  sae  cheerie  O, 


SWEET  ISABEL,    MY  DEARIE   O.  161 

When  blithely  'mang  the  broomy  braes 

I  wandered  wi'  my  dearie  0. 
Sing  on,  ye  warblers  o'  the  grove, 

Sing  on,  and  never  weary  0, 
Your  artless  notes  o'  melting  love 

Remind  me  o'  my  dearie  0. 


HELEN,  THE  ROSE  OF  THE  GLEN. 

'TWAS  evening,  in  summer :  the  bright  orb  of  day 

Had  sunk  slowly  down  in  a  rich  glowing  west ; 
And  sweetly  the  nightingale  warbled  its  lay, 

While  nature  seemed  wrapt  in  the  bosom  of  rest. 
The  moon  rose  in  beauty  behind  the  dim  hills, 

The  softness  of  twilight  was  melting  in  night ; 
When  a  sound  could  be  heard  like  murmuring  rills, 

Which  filled  my  sad  soul  with  ecstatic  delight. 

The  roses  of  June  lent  their  matchless  perfume, 

And  willows  dark- waving  their  dewy  tears  wept, 
While  musing  I  sat  on  the  moss-covered  tomb, 

Where  martyrs  of  freedom  for  ages  have  slept ; 
When  a  voice,  like  soft  music,  was  borne  in  the  air : 

I  listened  intent,  and  soon  heard  it  again ; 
It  fell  on  my  ear  like  sweet  accents  of  prayer — 

'Twas  Helen,  fair  Helen,  the  Eose  of  the  Glen  \ 


HELEN,  THE  EOSE  OF  THE  GLEN.        163 

Though,  wasted  and  pale,  Helen's  passion  yet  burned 

Still  true  to  her  Henry,  unaltered  and  pure ; 
And  wealth's  tempting  offers  with  coldness  she  spurned, 

As  perishing  pleasures  that  cannot  endure. 
Grief  sat  on  her  brow  in  woful  dejection  ; 

Her  poor  heart  was  wrung  with  the  anguish  she  felt, 
While  she  wept  the  sad  tears  of  changeless  affection 

That  hallowed  the  turf  where  she  piously  knelt. 

"  God  of  Mercy!"  she  said,  "if  by  thee  'twas  designed 

That  Henry  and  I  were  to  part  in  youth's  bloom, 
Then  why  does  his  memory  still  dwell  in  my  mind, 

To  bring  me  in  sorrow  to  weep  o'er  his  tomb  ? 
Why  were  my  days  once  so  blest  and  unclouded? 

Or  why  in  this  bosom  did  love  ever  burn  ? 
Why  was  my  heart  in  his  windingrsheet  shrouded, 

And  I  left  behind  a  poor  orphan  to  mourn  ? 

"  Five  cheerless  long  summers  have  now  passed  away 

Since  he,  the  delight  of  his  sweet  native  glen, 
All  tenderly  whispered,  while  dying  he  lay : 

1  Sweet  Helen,  weep  not,  we  shall  yet  meet  again.' 
Weep  not !  but,  O  Henry !  my  feelings  are  frail ; 

I  come  your  lone  grave  to  bedew  with  my  tears : 
'Tis  affection  that  craves  them,  and  bids  me  bewail 
The  joy  and  the  hope  of  my  juvenile  years. 


164        HELEN,  THE  ROSE  OF  THE  GLEN. 

"  Here  is  a  lily !  pure  emblem  of  sorrow ! 

Like  a  partner  of  grief  it  hangs  down  its  head ; 
But  fresh  dews  of  even,  and  zephyrs  of  morrow, 

Shall  make  it  in  beauty  wave  over  the  dead. 
I've  brought  it  with  me  from  the  deep  shady  bower, 

"Where  we  were  accustomed  at  gloaming  to  meet, 
To  plant  on  thy  grave  at  this  lone,  tranquil  hour, 

The  spot  that  has  long  been  my  fav'rite  retreat. 

"  I  court  not  the  world's  tempting  scene  that  beguiles, 

My  feelings  the  shades  of  sweet  solitude  seek ; 
For  despair  has  usurped  the  throne  of  my  smiles, 

And  blighted  the  rose  that  once  bloomed  on  my  cheek ; 
Blighted  the  hopes  that  in  fondness  I  cherished, 

And  darkened  life's  landscape  so  bright  and  so  free ; 
E'en  all  that  once  cheered  me  seem  to  have  perished, 

And  gone  to  the  grave,  to  lie  buried  with  thee.        . 

"  The  birds  sweetly  sing,  as  they  did  long  ago, 

The  streamlet  in  beauty  still  flows  by  the  door ; 
The  paths  where  we  wandered  when  strangers  to  woe, 

All  tell  me  of  days  and  of  joys  that  are  o'er. 
Green  weeds  rankly  grow  on  the  sweet  garden  spot 

That  once  seemed  so  lovely,  thy  pride  and  thy  care ; 
And  desolate  now  is  the  once  happy  cot — 

For  none  save  thy  heart-broken  Helen  lives  there. 


HELEN,    THE   ROSE   OF  THE   GLEoST.  165 

"  Untimely  my  parents  have  shared  thy  own  fate, 

And  left  your  poor  Helen  to  languish  and  pine ; 
They  gave  me  their  blessing,  and  told  me  to  wait 

The  will  of  kind  Heaven,  whose  ways  are  divine. 
Farewell,  0  my  Henry  !  a  transient  farewell : 

Though  cold  dews  fall  heavy,  ah !  fain  would  I  stay  ; 
Yet  soon  shall  yon  village  bell  toll  its  sad  knell, 

"While  I  will  be  borne  to  the  church-yard  away." 

She  looked  and  she  lingered,  she  wept  and  she  sighed, 

"While  slowly  she  paced  o'er  the  green  grassy  sod ; 
Her  tear-bedewed  cheeks  she  mournfully  dried, 

And  seemed  to  hold  holy  communion  with  God. 
Soon,  soon  came  the  time  when  with  sorrow  outworn, 

She  slept  'neath  the  turf  with  her  Henry  to  rest : 
Yet  they  shall  awake  in  eternity's  morn, 

For  ever  to  live  in  the  realm  of  the  blest. 


ARCHIE      GRIEVE. 

OH  !  what  are  the  conquests  that  heroes  achieve, 
Compared  with  the  fame  of  renowned  Archie  Grieve . 
Go  and  see  him  at  home  with  fowl  and  with  beast, 
And  Taste  will  confess  him  a  wonder  at  least. 
Leave  dusty  Broadway,  and  just  enter  his  store, 
He'll  show  you  such  strange  things  you  ne'er  saw  before. 
Here,  first  of  all,  is  a  breed  of  Scotch  donkeys, 
Green  Caraccas  parrots,  and  Siamese  monkeys ; 
And  ponies,  Canadian  and  Shetland,  so  small, 
Ye  might  carry  them,  saddle  and  bridle  and  all ; 
English  bull-dogs,  that  open  their  terrible  jaws, 
And  shaggy  black  mountain  bears  licking  their  paws. 
Ye  may  see  forest  wolves,  raccoons,  and  wild  cats, 
And  terriers  rough-bearded,  the  sworn  foes  of  rats. 
Here  swift  hounds,  Italian  and  British,  are  found, 
Whose  equals  are  not  in  the  wide  world  around, 
(This  Archie  avows  with  a  knowledge  profound.) 
Leave  the  St.  Bernard  breed  and  the  small  poodle, 
And  list  to  the  larks  he  has  taught  "  Yankee  Doodle ;" 


AKCHIE   GEIEVE.  1(J7 

To  mocking-birds  singing  the  songs  of  black  Dina, 
Or  mocking  the  chirpings  of  sparrows  from  China. 

Here,  too,  are  linnets— the  green,  the  rose,  and  the  gray 

From  the  land  of  the  heather,  that  sing  the  whole  day ; 

And  canaries  so  yellow,  whose  notes  are  divine 

Archie  swears  they  were  hatched  on  the  banks  of  the 
Rhine. 

Here  are  the  whole  feathered  tribe,  from  the  big  ostrich 

hen, 

In  the  desert  that  lives,  to  the  small  hopping  wren ; 
And  the  lord  of  the  dunghill  crows  loudly  and  clear— 
Although  caged  up,  makes  love  to  his  fat  cackling  dear. 
Here  are  all  kinds  of  sounds,  sweet,  harsh,  deep,  and 

hollow — 

What  orchestra  could  such  a  concert  e'er  follow  ? 
High  up  sits  the  owl,  with  a  tuft  like  a  crown, 
And  gravely  the  symbol  of  Wisdom  looks  down ; 
While  squirrels  leap  about,  and  the  golden  fish  swim. 
0  droll  Archie  Grieve!  who  is  like  unto  him? 


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AUG  1 


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YB   I20C3 


>ETICAL   AND    PROSE   WRITINGS    OF 

v.    W.  J.  Widdieton,  New  York. 
^  Co.,  San  Francisco. 
7  ithor  of  these-  ^oe    s 
i;  a     ative  of  lVt 


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